Chapter 224
Meanwhile , Far above the world's turmoil, beyond the newly tainted horizon where the Crimson Witch prepared her grotesque army, Daniel sat atop the Skjorn Peaks, an ancient crown of ice and unforgiving wind. From this high solitude, he watched the realm change like a wounded beast thrashing in a storm.
The letter he held trembled against the cold current. It spoke of Melgil staying with her parents, a temporary parting forced by circumstance. Strangely, the news did not sting him as one would expect. He simply accepted it, an inevitability, neither blessing nor tragedy. The path he chased now was larger than longing, and his heart understood that distance did not break what was forged in truth.
Nyx stood alongside him, still bound, their triplets existence confined to one shared physical form by the main toward law restrictions. They could not split into their autonomous bodies as they once did, yet they showed no resentment before their creator.
Their devotion was silent, unwavering, their presence like a shadow devoted to the flame that cast it. Daniel practiced his runic patterns away from prying eyes, etching invisible formulas across the air, honing a power he barely wished to reveal. The wind howled, and the clouds roiled with distant thunder, signs of gods reacting to mortal defiance.
Then, a new raven descended, landing upon the highest spire of rock where Daniel meditated. Its wings shook with exhaustion; frost clung to its feathers like shattered shards of night. The raven hesitated to look at him, trembling with instinctive fear of what his aura had become. But Daniel lifted his hand gently. "Come," he said, not as command, but invitation. The raven approached his feet, trembling still, and Nyx glared at it with feral protectiveness.
Daniel knelt, touching the bird's head with a symbol traced by fingertip alone—not rune, but intention manifested. "I grant you speech," he whispered. "You are no ordinary raven. You flew more than five thousand meters beyond what your kind should endure. You have earned a name." The raven tried to protest, humbly denying any greatness. "My lord, I was only given a task. I endure because I desire its reward." Daniel smiled faintly. "Even duty cannot replace will. Nevertheless, you endured." From his spatial storage, he took a strip of preserved meat and offered it. Nyx gasped aloud, shock breaking their usual stillness. "My lord—you can access your storage space? I thought the Restriction forbade all divine-tier abilities!" Daniel answered quietly, "The power they sealed is loosening. Slowly. I can access fragments of what I once wielded. But I choose not to rely on it. Not yet."
The raven bowed as it accepted the offering, now fed not by nature but by earned recognition. "Then accept a name," Daniel continued. "You are Huginn, Thought." The raven bowed deeper still, trembling not from fear but gratitude. "My lord… I have a sibling. The one who follows after me. Might you bless them too?" Daniel nodded once. "Share your story with me fully. Then send your sibling with the next message, and I will name them also." Huginn thanked him again and soared into the cold sky, meat clutched in its beak, wings ignited with new purpose.
Daniel unrolled the scroll Huginn delivered. The message spoke of the South finally accepting the Veridica Doctrine and adopting his Glíma training reforms. Word spread quickly: warriors from distant clans, blades still scarred from old rivalries, marched proudly to challenge this new philosophy. Even Jarl Ragnar Stormbreaker of the Central Kingdom and Jarl Astrid Skyrend, the Iron Shieldmaiden of the East, had welcomed the change. They proposed a grand tournament—conflicts settled not by raids or revenge, but by skill. A sacred arena to honor combat without war.
Daniel approved with one condition: "Allow me to join the fights," he wrote. "And let the arena be open to all, no bloodline, title, or creed denied entry." For strength meant nothing if it stood untested, and honor meant nothing if it was not earned. And on the Skjorn Peaks, the wind seemed to answer him like an old friend, promising that the world was about to remember what true combat meant.
Word reached Daniel not as rumor, but like a spear hurled across borders, carrying the weight of a shifting age. The South had declared loyalty to the Veridica Doctrine, and Glíma—once a boast of lineage, honor, and inherited skill, had begun to transform. It was no longer a tribal practice, nor a personal rite of strength; it was becoming a system, a philosophy built upon anatomy, timing, leverage, and ruthless precision.
Taught strength, not born strength. From the Ash Cliffs, the Drowned Hills, and the frost-cracked farmlands, warriors arrived like storms pulled toward a new gravitational center: men and women whose pride had been forged through clan bloodshed and reputation, who now crossed rivers and borderlands with one intention, to challenge the South's evolving doctrine, to break reason under instinct, to prove that technique could not surpass legacy. Yet another message came, heavier than travel, heavier than rivalry:
Ragnar Stormbreaker of the central plains and Astrid Skyrend of the eastern steel halls had accepted the new challenge as well. Two Jarls praised for their adherence to tradition now stood behind a public arena system, trial by open combat, where skill, not birthright, would decide the worth of a warrior. A council of clan leaders quarreled for hours over the implications, their voices swelling like thunder inside the hall of stone and smoke, until Eirunn Stormbreaker finally stood and spoke a single sentence that cracked the old order in half:
"If this tournament decides the worth of a doctrine, then let it include every soul who dares to fight. Not just clans. Not just nobles. All." The room fell silent. A disciple of runes and muscle, a scholar who shaped warfare with reason, asking to fight beside commoners, it shattered centuries of hierarchy. Ragnar Stormbreaker laughed first, a booming sound like iron hinges grinding against thunder.
"Good. Let those who obey the Doctrine meet the fists raised by pointless war." Astrid Skyrend, her spear resting by her throne like a silver fang ready to strike, nodded with a calm ferocity. "Open the gates. Let farmers, hunters, thralls, nobles, Jarls, and soulless brawlers enter. Let the world settle its disputes in the arena. Let the new doctrine bleed for its place." And the decree was sealed. Across the realm, caravans began to move, crowds forming into pilgrim-warriors; training halls forged techniques instead of steel, and old vendettas prepared to be resolved beneath open sky rather than in midnight ambushes. Yet as the people prepared to test the philosophy that might reshape their world,
Daniel felt something else shift as his Omni-Resonance skill can now be used at 50 percent , not in the politics, not in the pride of warriors, but in the air itself. The horizon had begun to change color, the sky streaked with rust-red and flesh-gray fog, as if the world itself was tasting blood and remembering hunger. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his gun blade, instincts sharpening into warning.
"Something unnatural is coming." He did not yet know that Mardôll's blood legion had begun to walk, that the land itself was coughing up war-spawned horrors in answer to forbidden runes—but the wind already whispered of it. And somewhere in the crimson north, deep beneath a fortress of ice, a castle screamed as its walls cracked like bone breaking under command.
The Frostfjord, a harsh expanse of crimson-streaked glaciers and relentless, howling storms, lay far to the north, a region both feared and revered. Its jagged ice cliffs and blood-tinted snowfields were said to mirror the cruelty of its rulers, and only the most hardy could traverse it without succumbing to frostbite or despair. From the central plains, a journey to this frozen wasteland demanded a month of grueling travel, whether by horse or carriage, across snow-choked passes, frozen rivers, and treacherous terrain that had claimed countless lives before. Stationed along the eastern border, Freydis the Crimson Witch had already positioned her ten thousand warriors like a living bulwark, a force sharpened by berserker potions and bound by blood-magic, in nearby settlements all over the edge of their known territory
But even this formidable host was constrained by the unforgiving geography; and mountain range that is know to host many creatures that thrive and live in the cold, a month of constant travel would be required to reach the lands governed by Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, the warlord whose iron grip and cunning had long kept the northern clans in line. Every pass, every frozen ridge, every icebound valley became a gauntlet for any force daring to cross, making strategy as vital as strength, and patience as deadly as any sword. The northern horizon remained distant, a scarlet line of snow and storm, as the Frostfjord waited silently, a cold sentinel to test the ambition and fury of those who would challenge it.
The Frostfjord's central stronghold rose like a jagged crown amid the endless snow, its walls carved into the volcanic mountains and interlaced with natural mountain passes that twisted like frozen arteries. Despite the bitter cold, nearly four thousand citizens called this place home, carving out existence in the layers of rock, ice, and molten veins that pulsed beneath the earth. Tunnels and caverns harnessed the warmth of geothermal activity, creating pockets of heat where markets, forges, and living quarters thrived, transforming the frozen wasteland into a subterranean metropolis.
Aboveground, volcanic peaks jutted skyward, their blackened stone scarred by rivers of lava long cooled, forming natural fortifications and pathways connecting the various tiers of the stronghold. Snow and ice blanketed the mountains like white armor, yet the city pulsed with life, a labyrinth of bridges, terraces, and carved halls where citizens moved between sunlight and subterranean warmth, trading, training, and preparing for the harsh seasons. Every alley, every cavern, every heat-lit chamber whispered the ingenuity of a people who had learned to thrive where nature's fury seemed absolute, and the Frostfjord city itself became both a fortress and a testament—a living, breathing testament to survival and resilience amid fire and ice.
The northern lands were not merely harsh, they were a crucible. Endless storms tore across the crimson glaciers, volcanic peaks belched ash into the wind, and the nights stretched long and merciless, testing every soul who dared call the north home. Yet from this brutal wilderness, Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, warlord of the North, had carved an empire unmatched in ambition and cunning.
The Frostfjord, with its towering central fortress and sprawling subterranean city of nearly four thousand souls, was not merely a stronghold, it was the beating heart of his vision, a base from which he could impose his will on all the surrounding lands. He walked its icy terraces, feeling the pulse of the volcanic mountains beneath his feet, the warmth from the underground veins resonating like the drumbeat of destiny itself. In the whispers of the wind through the jagged peaks, he heard the call of his ancestry: the blood of Vargrim, the Wolf of Hunger.
The legend of Vargrim, a lesser god of hunger and predation, was etched into the northern soil as deeply as the frost into stone. Vargrim was not merely a deity of brute force, but a predator of instinct and strategy, a being that demanded loyalty, cunning, and an unyielding drive to claim what it hungered for. From childhood,
Eirikr had been told that the wolf's blood flowed through his veins, shaping his fangs, his instincts, and his ambitions. Every conquest, every raid, every test of strength or will had been seen as a proving ground, a reflection of Vargrim's own predatory teachings. Where others saw cold and desolation, he saw opportunity; where others saw isolation, he saw dominion. He believed himself born not to defend his borders, but to claim the entire land, to bring every mountain, river, and city under the rule of the northern wolves, shaping the realm itself to mirror the insatiable hunger that defined him.
The Frostfjord city, with its labyrinth of heated caverns, its fortified terraces clinging to volcanic cliffs, and its labyrinthine tunnels connecting its subterranean layers, became a living symbol of his ambition. Here, he could train warriors in the ways of the hunt, sharpen minds as well as blades, and cultivate a force disciplined in both blood and strategy. His warriors, many of them descendants of clans who had survived centuries of famine, war, and predation, were indoctrinated not only in martial prowess but in the ruthless philosophy of Vargrim: hunger is not weakness, it is power; desire is not sin, it is the key to dominance; the strong do not wait, they claim.
Every night, as the storms howled across the Frostfjord peaks, Eirikr would stand at the edge of the highest volcanic ridge, eyes scanning the endless horizon, imagining his banners raised over every city, every clan, every plain. The whisper of the wind became a chorus to his conviction, and the bones of his forebears, warriors and hunters alike, seemed to pulse beneath the ice, affirming his claim. Even in the face of the rising Veridica Doctrine and the subtle but undeniable influence of Daniel Rothchester, Eirikr's belief in his destiny never wavered. He saw the chaos of the south as mere opportunity, and the fractured faith of the lesser gods as a sign that the northern wolves, guided by hunger, cunning, and divine blood, were fated to ascend.
In his mind, conquest was not ambition, it was inevitability. He would not merely survive the coming storms; he would thrive, feeding the hunger of Vargrim through each victory, each submission, each city that bent the knee. And as the crimson glaciers glittered beneath the aurora-streaked sky, Eirikr's heart burned with a singular, unshakable certainty: the North would not remain confined. The North would consume all
at the same time, The location for the grand tournament was carefully chosen, a deliberate space between the two great cities, roughly three hundred miles apart, equidistant enough to avoid favoring either side yet close enough to allow access through the ancient rune gate networks embedded in the sacred gathering halls of both cities. These gates, protected and revered for generations, were accessible only to the most loyal members of the united war clans, their presence ensuring that no outsider could slip in unnoticed. From these gates, messages, supplies, and even small groups of warriors could traverse the distance in days rather than weeks, their movements hidden from prying eyes, a quiet network of passage beneath the eyes of the wary Jarls.
To accommodate the unprecedented scale of the tournament, workers, summoned from surrounding villages and guided by experienced planners from both cities, were tasked with constructing a massive arena in the open central plains, roughly 150 miles from either city, a neutral ground where the spectacle of combat could unfold unimpeded. The plain itself, once a rolling expanse of grass and sparse woodlands, began to transform almost immediately.
Within three months, the settlement surrounding the central fortress of Storm Skjorn Fjord, which had once held a modest population of three thousand, swelled to twenty thousand as people who had long hidden in shadow or exile now emerged to witness, participate, or stake claims in the growing city. The expansion was not chaotic, however; governance was delegated to two trusted lesser clan leaders,
Varrik Stonejaw Thryn and Eldra Ironveil, who oversaw the rapid organization of markets, barracks, training grounds, and civic structures. Meanwhile, the remaining two leaders established small residential clusters for their relatives, located just fifty meters outside the city walls, blending protection with proximity. The surge of population and activity in Storm Skjorn Fjord did not go unnoticed by the eastern city of Skardal Flats. There, the Skyrend clan watched as their own modest city of 2,800 expanded to over 9,000 within the same period.
Small outlying settlements sprouted roughly one hundred meters from the main city walls, each patch a new home for the families of warriors, traders, and artisans drawn by the promise of opportunity and the impending tournament. The transformation of the central plains into a living, breathing hub of activity was cinematic in scale: tents, training yards, market stalls, and watchtowers stretched across the land, while the newly constructed arena rose like a sentinel at its heart, stone and wood hewn into terraces, colonnades, and vantage points, ready to witness the convergence of thousands of fighters.
From the horizon, the sight was almost unreal, a patchwork of human ambition, clan banners flapping in the wind, and the distant glimmer of rune gates casting faint, pulsating light across the sprawling settlement. It was a place of tension and potential, a stage where old rivalries would collide with new philosophies, where discipline would confront chaos, and where the future of the realm itself would begin to take shape under the watchful eyes of those who had dared to unify it.
The construction of the battle arena itself became a spectacle, a monumental effort that drew craftsmen, laborers, and architects from both cities and every allied settlement along the central plain. Stone was quarried from the nearby ridges, timber brought down from the northern forests, and metalwork, gates, railings, and the intricate mechanisms of the seating terraces—was forged in the forges of the lesser clans. Workers labored under the constant supervision of military engineers, ensuring not only stability but strategic visibility: vantage points for judges, observation towers for scholars of martial arts, and spaces reserved for ceremonial displays. The arena was designed not merely as a coliseum, but as a living classroom, a space where combat, philosophy, and human ingenuity could converge.
As the structure rose, martial arts schools from across the land began sending their representatives, eager to demonstrate their craft and stake a claim in the coming tournament. From the snow-swept reaches of the northern frostlands came practitioners of the Rimehand style, their movements sharp and precise, honed in freezing conditions that demanded both endurance and adaptability. From the eastern steel halls, masters of the Spear-Fang technique arrived, their fluid strikes and spinning forms reflecting generations of training in open plains and fortified halls. The southern clans brought their hybrid systems, a fusion of close-combat wrestling, grappling, and long-range blade maneuvers, tempered by practical knowledge of battlefield conditions. Even the distant skald-born from the western highlands contributed, performing acrobatics intertwined with runic-infused strikes, their motions echoing both tradition and subtle innovation.
None of these schools were bound by rigid dogma; the Netherborn had never imposed rules on the creation of martial arts. The only mandate was that every technique adhered to the principles of discipline, incremental mastery, and constant refinement. Innovation was not only allowed but encouraged, provided it served the higher purpose of refining skill, strengthening mind and body, and breaking the practitioner's limits without descending into recklessness or cruelty. Each school had its own interpretation, but all shared the same core: combat was a living philosophy, not mere bloodshed. Teachers, masters, and adepts alike understood that their innovations would be tested on the central plain, under the eyes of the most skilled observers and the fiercest competitors.
As the weeks passed, the arena became a hive of activity: instructors led intense training sessions, students sparred under the supervision of veteran fighters, and innovations in footwork, grappling, and Seiðr-enhanced techniques were trialed in miniature scrimmages. Each school sought not only to display its own prowess but to learn from others, borrowing, adjusting, and evolving styles that aligned with the Netherborn principles. It was a living crucible of martial philosophy: a place where skill could be refined, limits could be pushed, and new schools of thought could emerge from the collision of tradition and invention.
By the time the arena's terraces were fully completed, the central plain had transformed from an empty expanse into a sprawling academy of combat. Temporary training grounds sprawled like veins around the main arena, tents of different colors marking each school's presence, and the rhythmic clash of sparring weapons echoed day and night. From high observation towers, veteran instructors noted flaws, guided students, and ensured that the evolving techniques stayed true to the tenets of the Netherborn: precise action, disciplined growth, and measured progression beyond natural limits.
This convergence of martial cultures, all following the unyielding philosophy of discipline and evolution, created an electric atmosphere. Every motion, every clash, and every kata performed was both a test and a teaching moment. In the midst of it, the arena itself seemed to hum with anticipation, as if the plain, the stone terraces, and the rune gates themselves were aware that the coming tournament was not merely a contest of skill but the beginning of a new era—a place where combat would define philosophy, philosophy would define culture, and culture would determine the future of the realm.
The stage was set. The arena was alive. And every participant, from fledgling student to seasoned master, understood that on this plain, the legacy of the Netherborn would be both honored and challenged in ways that would ripple across the lands for generations.
From his vantage above the jagged Skjorn Peaks, Daniel surveyed the sprawling central plains below with a calm, almost clinical detachment, yet a fire of anticipation burned quietly in his chest. His mastery of fire and lightning, honed over countless trials and battles, had reached a point where spellcasting had become instinct rather than deliberate effort. The rune spell he had painstakingly forged had fully matured within him, embedded in the very fibers of his void armor.
No longer did he need to cast symbols or channel energy outward, the armor itself became the manifestation of his will, a living conduit that translated thought directly into chaotic elemental precision. He watched the arena preparations and the disciplined chaos of the martial schools with a quiet amusement, recalling the days when he fought with nothing but his skill, relying on the raw physicality of body and mind rather than the unrelenting surge of chaos energy.
The rules of the Second Floor had always been constraining, carefully designed to level the playing field. Combatants were allowed eighty percent melee and only twenty percent energy usage, a strict balance meant to prevent an untested mortal from being overwhelmed by the raw destructive potential of chaotic mana. Daniel understood the necessity of such restrictions, having once been a participant under the same limitations, and he respected their fairness for the majority. Most players barely reached ten thousand mana points.
But he was different, his evolution was neither linear nor predictable. Chaos and order had shaped him in ways that even the old gods found vexing; his presence was an irritation to them, a living anomaly that refused to fit neatly within their structures. Sigma, the ever-watchful Administrator of the Tower, recognized the same potential, knowing that the two lesser gods had intentions to make the Second Floor far more entertaining than the elders anticipated.
Yet the security protocols, carefully patched over decades, ensured that no unchecked interference from Administrators, or rogue Netherborn, could upset the delicate balance of sanctioned events. These safeguards were a monumental expenditure of divine oversight, yet the old gods insisted, blinded by pride, unable to see the larger pattern: they were nothing more than abstract representations of chaos and order, parading as endless absolutes while oblivious to the very forces they sought to control.
Daniel, however, felt no burden to conform. While his beloved Melgil remained at Rothchester, attending to her own growing responsibilities and the unspoken weight of her pregnancy, he yearned for the thrill of the hunt and the pulse of living among mortals once more. Here, on the central plain, he could test observation, strategy, and skill without exposing the full extent of his Netherborn identity. Only a handful of people had glimpsed his human form; only a select few truly knew who he was. Descending from the jagged peaks, Daniel allowed his figure to melt into the throng, unrecognized and yet fully aware of every motion, every calculation, every potential advantage.
As he climbed down, he felt the familiar hum of elemental energy coursing through him, fire flickering along his veins, lightning rippling beneath his skin, void armor thrumming in resonance with both. The air around him responded to his presence subtly: dust and loose stones rose in currents as if aware of his motion, the distant banners fluttered slightly more violently, and the faint taste of ozone and ash clung to the breeze. It was as if the arena itself, and perhaps the central plain itself, recognized the shift in the balance of power, though no one else could see it.
Blending seamlessly with the throngs of fighters, instructors, and spectators, Daniel observed every school, every style, every nuance of technique being displayed. He noted innovations in grappling, the subtle integration of Seiðr into martial routines, and the disciplined cadence of students following the principles of the Netherborn,discipline, constant training, and the relentless breaking of limits. The schools did not yet know it, but every action they performed was under the silent gaze of one who had transcended their understanding of combat.
With a subtle smile, Daniel adjusted his void armor to the flow of his movements and allowed himself to step fully into the arena space. He would not announce himself, would not flaunt power, he would participate as one among many, yet every maneuver, every calculated strike, every measured step would be a testament to the evolution he embodied. The festival of combat, the grand tournament, had begun. And above the clamor, above the disciplined chaos and anticipation, a silent storm of fire and lightning trailed behind him, unseen, waiting for the precise moment to remind the Second Floor why the Netherborn's presence was a force no doctrine could ignore.
If he chose to, Daniel could change the outcome of every duel, rewrite the narrative of every clash, and reshape the perception of power itself. Yet he would wait, watch, and measure, because even in anonymity, even beneath the scrutiny of gods and men alike, the thrill of observation, of learning, of bending limits, was far sweeter than spectacle alone.
The central plain was alive. The arena was alive. And Daniel Rothchester, Netherborn, master of fire, lightning, and chaos, had just arrived.
As the first month of the tournament drew to a close, the central plain had become a tapestry of banners, colors, and martial pride. Schools from every corner of the realm, ancient lineages of Glíma practitioners, obscure Seiðr combat academies, and newly founded martial clans inspired by the Veridica Doctrine, arrived to claim their place. Each group carried insignia, sigils, and totems that represented not just their style, but their philosophy and honor. Some displayed intricate knotwork carved into shields, others fluttered delicate silk banners embroidered with runic symbols of discipline and strength, and a few even paraded living totems or mechanical constructs built to demonstrate the pinnacle of their technique.
The arena grounds, once barren, were now alive with hundreds of tents, training yards, and practice circles where students sparred tirelessly under the watchful eyes of masters. Every clash, every flourish, and every stance reinforced the central theme of the tournament: innovation bound to rigorous discipline.
The Netherborn doctrine had set no rigid rules on innovation, styles could evolve, adapt, and even merge, but the foundation was immutable: training, discipline, and the relentless pursuit of breaking one's limits.
Far to the north, however, a far darker tide stirred. Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, warlord of the North and scion of the wolf god Vargrim, surveyed the Frostfjord from the highest tower of his volcanic citadel. The jagged peaks around his stronghold roared with storms, but the storms inside him were far fiercer. After centuries of preparation, he unleashed the first phase of his campaign: three million undead warriors, Draugr risen from frozen crypts, and the grotesque, horse-headed Nuckelavee bred in secret abysses, marched in disciplined ranks toward the central plain. Eirikr's intent was clear: the arena,
where thousands of the realm's most skilled fighters were now gathering, presented the perfect opportunity to crush his competition. The unification of the east and central plains under one banner, combined with whispers from the west of excitement and interest in the grand tournament, only confirmed to him that this was the ideal moment to eliminate potential threats to his war campaign. By letting these powerful clans clash first, he could strike decisively and claim supremacy over the entire region.
Among those caught in the tides of this looming chaos, Altan Khödan of the Golden Bull of the Steppe had a more personal vendetta. He had spent months nursing his rage toward a crippled woman who had taken his fighting hand in a previous confrontation.
While the majority of the western clans hesitated to confront the eastern and central coalition directly, outnumbered and strategically disadvantaged, Altan focused solely on the one target he believed he could kill. Yet fate and intervention had already turned against him: the woman who had once been crippled now moved with lethal precision.
The northern winds howled like wolves mourning death as Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane stood atop the obsidian ramparts of Frostfjord. Below him, the glaciers cracked open like splitting bone, exposing rivers of crimson ice. Those veins pulsed like organs beneath the earth, and from their caverns emerged his army, three million undead, half-frozen and bound by forged runes older than kings.
Draugr marched with spears fused into bone, their shields riveted to frost-seared flesh. Nuckelavee trampled forward, flayed skin sticking to their mutilated riders like lovers clinging to corpses. Frost wraiths glided between them like specters of war, their breath turning air into death. Their eyes glowed sickly blue, pulsing like starving hearts.
Eirikr's cloak of wolf pelts billowed behind him as he pressed a blood-soaked hand against the sigil of Vargrim, Lesser God of Hunger and Greed, burnt into his chest. The mark writhed like a living parasite, drinking from his veins.
"They gather like sheep for a festival," he growled, gaze turning south. "A tournament of glory? Hah. A pen of slaughter."
The moon glinted off his fangs, real, hereditary, born of his clan's ancient curse. Eirikr sniffed the air, as though smelling prey across miles. "I will cull the strong. I will feed their bones to Vargrim. I will claim this land as his feast."
His war priestess, Thranja Skull-Chanter, stepped from behind a pillar of frozen ribs that formed a shrine to their god. Bone beads rattled around her neck like loose teeth. Her eyes shimmered with madness. "You seek conquest, my Jarl. But conquest draws enemies. What do you fear?"
Eirikr laughed, a sound like an avalanche consuming a village.
"Fear? I fear only an empty empire."
He raised his hand, and the runic chains restraining the army shattered with a sound like breaking stars. The undead surged as the tundra split beneath the force of their march. Snow evaporated. The frozen rivers churned red. The world recoiled at his approach.
"We march south," he commanded.
And the North obeyed.
Far from the northern blight, where banners waved like colorful flames across the central plains, the newly built Grand Arena of Skarnhold flourished. Thousands of tents crowded its walls, a living hive of ambition. Merchant wagons rattled through mud and stone. Rune lanterns hummed with arcane sparks. Vendors roasted beast organs on skewers and sold salves promising "victory in three sips or your death avenged."
Warriors from every direction boasted, bargained, and brawled. Dozens of martial schools displayed their insignias, Water-Fang Glíma, Iron-Root Holds, Hollow Palm Seiðr-Wrestlers, Thunder-Hand Grapplers, even foreign Stygian blade-dancers whose feet barely touched the earth when they moved.
Through this storm of ego walked a man in a simple cloak, hood low, face shadowed. Daniel. No Netherborn aura. No Void armor. Just the gait of someone intentionally forgettable.
At the registration hall, three brutish fighters blocked the doorway. Their armor was patchwork iron, their weapons scarred but deadly.
"Oi!" barked the leader, a mountain missing half an ear. "Queue's for real contenders. Not stray beggars."
Daniel offered a polite smile. "Then I'll just take one entry form, if you don't mind."
The mountain shoved him lightly, more insult than attack. "The form costs four silver—and your pride. Got either?"
Daniel shrugged. "Just the silver." He paid exactly four coins.
The ruffians burst out laughing.
"What's your style then, eh?" sneered the third. "Running away?"
Daniel nodded thoughtfully. "Something like that."
The registrar stamped the parchment lazily. "Name?"
Daniel paused. "…You can write whatever you want."
The registrar gave a bored shrug. "Anonymous. Good luck staying alive, Anonymous."
As Daniel walked away, merchants muttered:
"Who joins without a school emblem?"
"Maybe he's hiding his technique."
"Or maybe he's never trained a day in his life."
At a weapons stall, a smith slammed a massive axe into Daniel's hands. "Good weight, stranger. Made for cracking ribs like firewood."
Daniel tested the balance gently, then shook his head. "Too loud."
"Loud?" the smith scoffed. "What, you planning to tickle your enemies?"
Daniel selected the smallest dagger on the table, more a sliver of metal than a weapon. As soon as he touched it, the blade sang, a vibration, faint and clear, as if recognizing him.
Daniel smiled slightly.
"It remembers… something."
He set it down and walked on.
The smith stared after him, unsettled. "Who in all nine realms fights with something that small?"
Across the arena's western encampment, fur tents pitched like a stubborn island of tradition, Altan Khödan of the Golden Bull crushed a drinking horn in his fist. Fermented mare's milk splattered across his chest. His bellow of rage nearly shook the stakes from the earth.
He was watching Eirunn Stormbreaker train. Watching her new mechanical leg turn, pivot, and strike with fluid brutality.
"That cripple was meant to crawl for life," he snarled.
A war captain swallowed. "Killing is forbidden during the tournament, Khödan…"
Altan stood, the veins in his arms bulging like braided rope. "Laws are for weaklings who fear their gods."
Another captain risked speaking. "If you attack her, the east and central clans will unite against us."
"I don't care." Altan's glare was primal, hungry. "I will kill her before she kills my reputation."
He watched Eirunn perform a flawless spinning kick that cracked the training post in half.
"That metal limb," he hissed, "that artificial witch-steel… It mocks the old ways. It mocks strength earned through pain. I'll tear it off her corpse and wear it as a trophy."
Two merchants overheard from behind a canvas flap. They rushed away whispering:
"The Bull plans to break the rules."
"He'll bring blood before the games even start."
"Good for business," one muttered, pale with dread.
"But bad for the world."
The first town to stand in the path of Eirikr Bloodmane's horde was Lornhollow, a humble settlement nestled between steaming vents and snow-choked hills. Its people were hunters, miners, and trappers, hardy, stubborn, fiercely loyal to the North. They had no banners, no martial schools, no blessed champions.
They had only doors barred against the cold.
The undead arrived at dawn, though dawn came slowly in Frostfjord, the sky sickly pale as if too afraid to shine upon the horror below. A blizzard rolled in with the army, drowning sound. The snowfall came thick, so thick that the sentries on the wooden palisades barely noticed the shifting shadows crawling over the ice.
Then the shadows opened their jaws.
The Draugr struck without war cries, without sound. No clashing shields. No roars. No drums. Just the hiss of tearing flesh beneath falling snow.
Families ran. Doors splintered. Lights extinguished beneath pale claws. Frost wraiths drifted into homes like cold breath, freezing screams in throats before voices could escape. Nuckelavee galloped through the narrow streets, their flayed torsos shrieking through skull-mouths, dragging chains that hooked into flesh and dragged survivors out like hunted game.
Not a single blow of resistance mattered. Steel shattered against ice-bound bone. Arrows cracked. Fire sputtered and died.
The massacre lasted three minutes.
It left no survivors.
And in that quiet, with the blizzard still howling like mourning spirits, Eirikr walked through the ruins, boots crunching on frost-hardened corpses. Thranja Skull-Chanter followed, her bone staff dripping crimson slush.
She spoke softly."Are you satisfied, my Jarl? A town of children and trappers. No warriors to cull. No champions to feed your god."
Eirikr gazed upon the dead, throat rumbling with approval."They ran. The weak should run. Let them flee south, let them carry terror behind their eyes."
He knelt and slammed his hand into the ice. Runes flared like starving mouths across the bodies. The dead convulsed, bones gnashing, hands twitching. Flesh knit with sinew of ice. The fallen rose one by one, eyes ignited with cold hunger.
Lornhollow's people joined the march.
Another voice rose behind him—an undead throat gasping words of worship. A fallen town elder, still wearing his fur cloak, now bound by runic chains. His voice was a wet rattle:"Wh-w-we answer… Vargrim's call…"
Eirikr laughed."You answer mine."
He stood, cloak billowing, watching as the new undead blended into the massive wave of corpses stretching across the tundra.
Three million… now three million and counting.
Snow melted where they walked, scorched by necrotic heat. The land cracked behind them, as though the world were trying to split and hide from their march. Wolves fled their dens. Birds fell dead from the air. Even blizzards seemed to pull away from their path, leaving only a long corridor of death pointing south.
Pointing toward the Central East, Toward the Grand Arena.
Thranja whispered to him as they marched."You go to kill warriors… when the gods have already given you an army of corpses. Why bother with the living?"
Eirikr smiled, showing his wolf-fang lineage."The dead obey. But only the living… defy."His eyes gleamed with savage delight."I want warriors who scream. I want their will crushed beneath me. Those who kneel—those who resist—those who devour the world instead of starving for it. I will hunt them. And those who survive my culling shall become my generals."
His voice rolled like thunder across the tundra:
"Let the tournament gather every strong fool in the realm. Vargrim demands a feast of strength."
The undead roared, not with voices, but with the trembling of the earth itself.
The sky grew darker.
And Eirikr marched on, unstoppable, toward a world that still had no idea death was already on its way.
The Grand Arena of United War clans was alive with anticipation, the air thick with the scents of forge smoke, sweat, and anticipation. From every corner of the realm, nearly five hundred warriors had converged, representing every school, creed, and style imaginable. The registration tents had long since overflowed, and the central plain surrounding the arena was now a patchwork of training grounds, sparring rings, and demonstration platforms.
The organizers, overwhelmed by the sheer turnout, had to devise a system to separate the competent from the untested, the experienced from the eager. The solution: the qualifying round, a brutal, high-stakes trial designed not merely to judge skill, but to reveal the character, endurance, and innovation of each fighter. Each bout would feature twenty participants at a time, fighting within a circular arena of packed earth, roughly forty meters in diameter, surrounded by elevated terraces for referees, scribes, and observers.
The rules were strict yet fair: no killing allowed, strikes aimed to maim or incapacitate were forbidden, magic and energy use were limited to twenty percent of total combat output, the remainder to be resolved through melee and traditional techniques. Brawlers would earn points not merely for landing hits, but for strategy, control of the arena, adaptability, and the execution of unique forms, while unsportsmanlike conduct would result in immediate disqualification. The goal was to trim the ranks efficiently, cutting nearly half of the warriors from the tournament before the next round.
As the first qualifying match was called, a hush fell over the crowd, broken only by the wind whipping against the stone walls and the distant faint echo of drums signaling the start. Eirunn Stormbreaker, stepping into the arena for the first time, felt the weight of countless eyes upon her, yet the new exoskeleton under her armor hummed softly, the runes pulsing in harmony with her Seiðr flow.
Around her, the nineteen other combatants, fierce men and women from every corner of the realm, adjusted their stances, each attempting to size up the field, each wary of the unexpected. Eirunn's mind cleared, her breathing steady. She remembered the recent victory against Freydis's berserkers, the blood spilled and lives saved, and the exhilaration of reclaiming mobility she had long been denied.
Her first step onto the arena floor was met with a ripple of murmurs—some questioning the cripple who now walked unassisted, some in awe at the precision and confidence in her movement. When the signal horn sounded, the twenty warriors exploded into action simultaneously, a storm of strikes, parries, dodges, and flashing energy.
Eirunn moved with unerring precision, weaving between assailants, redirecting attacks, and delivering measured counters that carried not only force, but elegance, a choreography of deadly grace. Her friends in the stands, including Arvid, Sigrid, Harald, and Eira, leaned forward, fists clenched, eyes wide as she danced through the onslaught. Sparks flew as swords met metal, and the dust of the arena kicked up around her, creating a haze that seemed almost otherworldly. One by one, competitors fell back, their confidence shattered by her flawless integration of martial skill and enhanced mobility, while others pressed forward,
testing her limits. The scorers, scribes, and rune-sealed observers tracked every movement, every calculated strike, every subtle feint, as points accumulated and reputations solidified. By the time the round ended, only ten participants remained, the rest bowed or backed off in acknowledgment of defeat or were cut due to infractions or lack of proficiency.
Eirunn stood at the center, chest heaving, eyes alight with exhilaration, the first official victory of her tournament journey marking her not merely as a survivor, but as a warrior reborn. The crowd erupted, a thunderous chorus of awe and approval, the echoes of which rolled across the central plain, carrying a warning and a promise: the tournament had begun, and already, legends were being forged.
The second round of the qualifiers began under a blood-orange dawn, the arena now buzzing with heightened tension. Twenty warriors were called forth once more, their armor clanking, weapons raised, and eyes sharp with anticipation. Among them, Daniel appeared almost unremarkable, a simple cloak, hood drawn, and a single dagger gripped lightly in his right hand. No runes glowed along its edge, no chaotic energy whispered through the air. Yet as the horn blared, he moved, and every doubt dissipated.
He slipped into the center of the arena like water, flowing, unpredictable. The first assailant lunged with a spear, a seasoned fighter from the Ash Cliffs, but Daniel pivoted, the dagger flicking in a fluid arc that grazed the man's armor, redirecting the momentum so the attacker stumbled past him. A crossbow bolt whistled from the side, and Daniel's body folded with a twisting, rolling motion that seemed almost impossible; the blade never left his grasp, guiding the attacker past him while simultaneously countering the strike from a short sword wielded by a warrior from the Drowned Hills.
Every movement, step, dodge, counter, feint, was precise, a deadly dance of anticipation and reaction, not relying on raw strength or brute force, but on timing, leverage, and the subtle exploitation of openings. Those in the crowd familiar with advanced martial arts gasped, whispers spreading like wildfire. "Is that… could it be… Daniel?" one elder fighter murmured, hand gripping a spear tight enough to whiten knuckles. "It has to be," replied another, eyes wide, "look at the footwork, the angles, only someone trained beyond mortal technique could move like that." Ragnar Stormbreaker, observing from a separate elevated stand as his own category prepared, leaned forward, eyes narrowing beneath furrowed brows. His lips moved in a mutter only he could hear. "Restraining… still restraining, even here," he said quietly. "
thats Hersir Daniel… he must have a reason." Behind him, a few of Daniel's former pupils, now scattered across different clans and observing in awe, remained silent, understanding the calculus hidden behind Daniel's restraint. "He fights this way," one whispered to another, "to measure, to study, to preserve… it's never about winning outright. Every motion is deliberate, yet every flaw he allows is for learning. Only he knows why." The battle raged, strikes slashing through the air, warriors tumbling in a mix of brute force and desperation, but Daniel flowed through them, a phantom dagger dancing at the edge of perception, landing precise, non-lethal strikes that incapacitated without unnecessary harm. His style was a synthesis of all he had learned, a bridge between past training and what the next stage of martial mastery demanded, a style so advanced it seemed to bend physics in the eyes of those who watched closely. As the horn finally sounded for the end of the round,
Daniel stood at the center of the arena, unscathed, surrounded by opponents either subdued or bowing in acknowledgment of his skill. The crowd erupted in disbelief and awe; even those unaware of his identity felt the weight of something beyond mere mortal training. Ragnar clenched his fists, teeth grinding. "One day," he murmured, "
I will fight him again. But not here, not now… there is a reason he holds back, a reason he walks among mortals like this." And for those who had trained under Daniel before, the reasoning was clear: Hersir Daniel never revealed the full measure of his strength unless it served a purpose greater than the immediate fight, he tested, he taught, he guided outcomes, and he moved as though every battle was a lesson for the world, not a simple contest of dominance.
After a few minutes , Eirunn's second qualifying round began beneath a roar of drums and the rising hum of rune-lit barriers, the arena trembling with anticipation as twenty warriors clashed in coordinated chaos. She moved through them like wind cutting through heavy snow, her exoskeleton leg gliding in arcs of cold precision.
She parried spears with the edge of her forearm brace, deflected swords with quick, force-redirecting pivots, and turned kicks into throws using the reinforced weight of her artificial limb. The warriors fell not from sheer brutality, but from surgical control, each counter guided by her calm pulse and a warrior's breath refined by years of forced restraint.
When the dust settled, only three remained: the fortress-built Harald Thryne who stood waiting with his shield and short blade at rest; Eirunn Stormbreaker, focused and steady; and Altan Khödan of the Golden Bull, who walked forward like a storm wearing the shape of a man. His arrival alone shifted the air, the way beasts silence the forest. The crowd leaned forward as he cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with animal rage.
Altan roared and charged first, a wild bull unleashed, fighting with Stampede Form, the traditional Khödan clan style: low center weight, explosive forward momentum, overwhelming force from linear strikes designed to crush bone through brute pressure. His fists hammered like battering rams, shoulders thrusting into tackles meant to shatter ribs, each step a foot stomp meant to break balance.
Eirunn answered with the thundering Gale, her clan's own technique refined through discipline rather than fury; she pivoted with small angles, glancing off his charges and letting his bulk slide past her. She turned his momentum into deflections with open palms, glancing strikes along his wrists and floating around him like cold wind redirecting avalanche force. The exoskeleton amplified her precision, bending just enough, locking when needed, each piston pulse perfectly harmonizing with the rhythm of her martial focus.
Altan tried again, spinning elbow strikes and shoulder smashes, switching into the Horn Gore, a deceptive rush-and-hook movement meant to break throats and clavicles. Eirunn countered with a subtle knee-turn rotation using her artificial limb, letting his weight collide against her reinforced shin, sending shock up his bones. Gasps rippled across the arena. His clan had spent centuries perfecting unstoppable offense, yet she had made their strikes immovable against themselves.
Minutes dragged into a grinding stalemate of fury versus clarity, until the truth began to show: Altan could not land a hit. Every attack was caught in a trap she set with a single step. Every feint, she read through breathing and shoulder tension. The more his rage grew, the more her calm deepened. And that calm was maddening.
Altan's vision narrowed, hatred boiling, pride choking his breath. "Stand still and FIGHT ME!" he screamed, spittle mixed with blood. Eirunn's reply was cold, clipped, and devastating: "I am fighting. You are just thrashing." The crowd erupted, some cheering, some gasping in shock. Harald Thryne tightened his grip on his shield from the sidelines, watching with sharpened admiration. "She's not the same Eirunn we sparred with," he muttered. "She's… beyond us now."
Altan, blinded by humiliation, finally snapped. He drew a hidden poison spike carved with sacrificial runes from his artificial hand, an illegal weapon intended not to score points, but to kill. The audience shouted in fury, judges rose to intervene, but he lunged first. The strike was aimed at her throat, powered by desperation and bloodlust. Yet Eirunn moved with frightening clarity, she stepped inward instead of back, letting the strike skim past her cheek as she twisted his wrist with her exoskeleton brace. The artificial limb locked, pistons hissing, and his arm snapped like splintered wood.
Altan screamed, high, broken, panicked. She didn't stop. Her knee rose with mechanical precision into his gut, cutting his breath; her elbow hammered into his jaw, dropping him to the floor; and her heel, the reinforced limb of steel and rune-coiled sinew, hovered above his throat like the execution strike that would end him. Silence swallowed the arena whole. Only her breath and the hum of her exoskeleton could be heard. "You broke the honor of the clans," she said softly. "I break nothing. I only stop what you tried to destroy." And instead of crushing him, she stepped back, letting the judges drag Altan away, his pride broken worse than his bones.
Harald Thryne raised his shield, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Stormbreaker," he called across the arena, voice like rolling thunder, "I hope you saved some strength… because I intend to test its limits." The arena roared alive once more. The next battle was about to begin.
A fortress of iron faced the precision of a storm as the arena floor shimmered beneath runes of warding, its stone veins glowing faintly while thousands held their breath. Blood from earlier qualifiers had already dried into dark stains, yet hunger for more combat roared from the stands as the last duel for this bracket began.
Harald Thryne stepped forward first, shoulders like a ship's prow, arms thick as oak roots, moving with the unshakable heaviness of a glacier. His round shield, bearing his clan's black anvil, stood before him not as a weapon but as a wall, the short sword behind it forged not for ceremony, but for brutal, efficient killing.
Opposite him walked Eirunn Stormbreaker, hair bound tight, breath steady, eyes calm, not proud, not angry, simply present. She held no exaggerated stance, merely raised her hands in the same efficient posture she used against Altan Khödan: elbows close, feet light, spine relaxed and ready, like wind gathering before a squall. The crowd sensed in her stillness a killing storm. Harald advanced as a mountain would, slow yet unstoppable, shield angled low and sword tucked behind his steel barrier, shrinking the distance like a closing trap.
Eirunn answered with small, predatory shifts, side steps barely half a foot, pivots like falling rain, her gaze fixed not on Harald's expression but his wrists and knees. She read each breath, every change of weight, as though she had fought him a hundred times. Harald struck first, shield smashing forward like a battering ram, yet she dissolved sideways, sliding her foot around the angle, palm redirecting the strike instead of resisting it.
He stumbled for a heartbeat, not because she pushed him, but because she let his own momentum betray him. This was the Stormbreaker's art: turning strength into disaster. Harald recovered and attacked again, faster and heavier, shield battering in a flurry meant to crush bone and collapse air. Eirunn slipped through the assault like rain through cracks, forearm redirecting blade, knee sliding past shield edge, every contact small, precise, almost delicate, yet each one forcing Harald's stance wider, his strikes shorter, his defense weaker.
The crowd realized too late that she was not fighting him; she was letting him destroy himself. Nearby, the blood of Altan Khödan still stained the sand where he had fallen, howling like a wounded bull when Eirunn severed his hand. His rage, born of humiliation, jealousy, and the oppressive Netherborn presence coiling unseen around the arena, clung like a choking mist.
Many blamed the heavy atmosphere on gathering storm clouds, but martial masters felt something older: a pressing weight, a primal wrongness, a whisper of ancient hunger. Some glanced toward Altan lying unconscious on the healer's bench, stump wrapped in rune-cloth, remembering his screams of stolen honor and stolen future.
Yet those who trained beside Daniel and Eirunn knew the truth, Altan lost because he stopped training and chose hatred over improvement; the Netherborn presence only rotted what was already decayed. Back in the ring, Harald's shield strikes slowed as his breathing grew heavy, though each assault was still terrifying in force.
Eirunn continued to step just outside his kill zone, punishing every overreach with short, punishing counters: a knuckle into the soft flesh of the wrist, a palm pressed against the inner elbow, a hook behind the ankle to fold his stance, a chopping forearm into his clavicle as he reset. No flourish, no theatrics, just anatomy, timing, and brutal comprehension.
At last, Harald overcommitted, raising his shield too high in an attempt to trap her; Eirunn flowed beneath it, her hand slicing downward like falling steel, fingers spearing into the nerve of his shoulder. Harald roared as his sword arm went numb. She did not chase victory or strike again; she simply stepped back and allowed him to see his ruin.
That mercy shattered him more deeply than any blow. Breathing hard like a forge bellows, Harald lowered his shield. He could still fight, but not without shame, and so he dropped his sword, bowed his head, and spoke clearly to all:
"You do not break storms. You endure them." With that, he knelt and surrendered. The arena erupted as rune walls pulsed brighter, resonating with the roar of five thousand souls. At the healer's bench, Altan Khödan awoke, eyes wild and drowned in madness, his mind clinging to the Netherborn aura thickening around him like a second skin. While the crowd celebrated Eirunn's triumph, something ancient and hungry stirred at the edges of fate, and far to the north, Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane's undead legions began their march east. The storm was only beginning.