Chapter 226
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Daniel stood with his simple cloak settling around him like mist, his dagger sheathed, head bowed in quiet finality. His announcement still echoed through the ruptured air, and the crowd could not grasp whether they had just witnessed surrender… or ascension.
But then, like wind bending wheat, those who knew him acted first.
The elders, teachers, and warriors who had trained beside him long before this tournament, men and women who had seen his path from obscurity to revelation, rose from their seats. Not a cheer. Not an outcry. They bowed. Every spine curved in reverence, every brow dipped as though a sacred rite had been invoked. It was respect, not demanded but earned; devotion given not to a champion of brute victory, but to a master of truth.
Others stared, bewildered, until a voice cracked through the confusion.
A single warrior stood up, his armor scorched with runes that flickered like dying stars. His insignia marked him as a Netherborn, one of the rumored few who practiced the darkest, purest forms of inner energy. His chest heaved, emotion shaking his throat raw as he shouted with a cry that shattered the hesitation:
"HAIL, LORD NETHERBORN!"
The words struck the crowd like lightning. Gasps rippled. Murmurs swelled into a storm of recognition and disbelief. Faces paled, others flushed with awe. The rumors, the stories, the whispered legends of the man who had allegedly created Veridica, the doctrine of living truth, the art of fighting not against force but with it. The same specter said to have shaped a new combat system, a newborn martial art known as Brokartok, the "Broken Force."
And now they had not just heard of its founder—they had seen him evolve. Right before their eyes. Another transformation, another layer of mastery revealed like a veil pulled back from a divine weapon.
In the arena's center, Ragnar, once a mountain of certainty, now a monument cracked by doubt lifted his head from his shattered axe. Blood stained his brow, but his voice was steady, reverent, and heavy with revelation, whispered as though naming a god:
"The third martial art form…"
He spoke not with envy, but with awe.
Somewhere in the stands, someone finally understood and whispered the word that would shape history:"An evolution… a path beyond dominance."
And as Daniel walked away, unvictorious in title, undefeated in truth—the arena erupted not in cheers,
Ragnar Stormbreaker had fought men who wielded strength like hammers and arrogance like crowns. He had crushed warriors who trembled beneath the weight of their own brutality. Yet standing in the aftermath of Daniel's quiet withdrawal, he felt something he had never known—not fear of death, but reverence for control. Daniel had shown that power without mastery was merely chaos wearing armor, a wild current with no riverbank to shape it. The broken axe at Ragnar's feet felt like a symbol of everything he had misunderstood; he had trained to conquer strength, not to command it.
As the realization sank in, admiration burned through him like a new oath. Those who practiced the foundation of the new Glima, the wrestling art of their ancestors—now stared into a future made sharper, deeper, more demanding. And Ragnar himself spoke the name of that evolution, a title born from instinct and humility:
Hryggspenna, the Spine-Grip Art, a doctrine of bending force by the axis of the body rather than clashing against it. Word of the name spread through the arena like wildfire, even as the tournament continued. Drengr and skald-born warriors from the central and eastern territories found themselves ignoring the clashes in the pit, whispering instead about studying the form that had humbled a Stormbreaker. Victory was forgotten; knowledge became the prize.
Daniel remained within the arena, not as a spectacle now but as a quiet authority, seated beneath a small pavilion meant for resting combatants. There, with only a few meters between them and the battlefield's dust, Ragnar Stormbreaker and Jarl Astrid Skyrend spoke with him about the future of their united guild. The topic was no longer who would win the competition, but what their warriors might become under a shared and evolving discipline. As this council of warriors contemplated a future shaped not by domination but by refinement, two ravens swept in from the open sky. The larger, familiar to Daniel, landed first Huginn. the raven he had once named and entrusted with distant tasks. But beside it stood another, its feathers marked by harsh wind and mountain frost, clearly its brother. Neither Jarl raised a hand to brush them away. Instead, all six leaders watched as the birds lowered their heads toward Daniel, not like beasts, but like messengers acknowledging a chieftain.
Then the impossible happened: the unknown raven spoke. A dozen breaths caught, muscles stiffened, disbelief crawled across hardened faces. Daniel greeted the bird calmly, calling it by its newborn title, Huginn's brother, unnamed but loyal. Ragnar's composure fractured for the first time since his youth. "Huh, Lord Daniel… how can this raven speak?" Daniel answered with effortless certainty, his voice neither boasting nor humble, but honest:
"I gifted it the ability to speak as it flew toward the Skjorn Peaks.
Its determination to fulfill its task deserved reward." The raven bowed its head again as if understanding the sacredness of merit. Then, with quiet ceremony, it introduced its brother. Daniel's expression did not soften, but his eyes held a rare warmth. "Your brother has earned his gift. Now let me test yours. Fly north. Bring me useful truth, and speak it with your own voice." The nameless raven bowed as a soldier might, then launched into the open air, wings carving toward the distant peaks, like an oath made flesh.
Huginn awaited orders, clearly loyal, clearly hoping its service would remain with Daniel. Yet Daniel turned and introduced Ragnar to the raven. With a single whispered phrase, too soft for the others to fully hear, Huginn lowered his head and stepped to Ragnar's feet, accepting the warrior as his new master. Daniel explained:
"His name is Huginn. Thought. He shall serve you. A mind beside your storm." Ragnar swallowed his disbelief, accepting the gift with the gravity of a chieftain receiving a weapon of fate. Daniel continued, telling Astrid that once the second raven returned, she too would receive a familiar—the voice to Ragnar's thought. Astrid bowed her head, her respect silent but unshakable.
Before they dispersed, Ragnar spoke again with hesitation, humbled by the presence before him. "Then, Lord Daniel… how are we to address you publicly? 'Netherborn'? 'Founder'? 'Master'?" Daniel did not lift his chin like one who desired reverence. Instead, he smiled with a clarity that felt sharper than any blade. "Address me based on my merit.
As I said. I am not a god." And so the leaders bowed, not to his name, nor to his title, but to his character. In that moment, Daniel was celebrated not as a being to worship, but a human who earned devotion the same way he earned victory, through truth, and nothing less.
The fourth battle concluded with roaring steel and scattered triumphs, yet the pavilion remained hushed, its stillness a sanctum where warriors of higher purpose gathered. The sun sank low behind the arena wall, washing the sky in bruised orange as frost began creeping over the banners. Then, slicing through the twilight, a lone raven descended its feathers clumped with snow, wings stiff from relentless flight. It landed before Daniel, breathless, shivering, yet unbroken. The crowd in the stands erupted in cheers for the tournament's victors, unaware that a far more important war had just delivered its first warning.
Daniel knelt, receiving the raven with care usually reserved for relics or wounded kings. Huginn, sensing kinship, flew swiftly from Ragnar's side to his snow-covered brother, nuzzling it with a low series of clicks and guttural notes, raven speech, ancient and indecipherable to human ears. Their exchange was quick, urgent, and poignant. After a moment, Huginn hopped forward, spreading his wings slightly in formal announcement.
"Lords and lady," he croaked clearly, his tone shifting from affection to command, "my brother has returned. He flew without rest from dawn to dusk to bring you dire information."
Daniel rose from his seat, stepping toward the exhausted bird whose head bowed low, not in weakness but in reverence. The pavilion fell silent, the tournament cheers fading into a distant blur. With a calm hand, Daniel touched the raven's head and traced a spiraling symbol into its feathers—an old sign of awakening, recognition, and burden. Then, with a voice steady and ceremonial, he declared:
"You shall be called Muninn, meaning Memory. You shall serve Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend and her clan."
The raven lifted its head, its eyes gleaming with sudden awareness. When it spoke, its voice carried gratitude like cold steel wrapped in velvet.
"My lord… thank you for blessing me with speech and for granting me a name. I shall honor your command. I will serve Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend and her clan with loyalty and reverence."
Astrid bowed her head slightly, a warrior's nod, deep and solemn. In that gesture she accepted not a pet, but a companion, a witness to her future deeds.
Muninn then took his place beside her, ruffled his wings, and spoke again, his tone becoming grave as winter itself.
"Lord and ladies," he began, "I have seen oceans of Draugr and Nuckelavee marching through the white blizzard. They move under snow's cover as though the storm is their cloak. The towns at the foot of the northern mountains have already fallen. Nothing remains but shattered timbers and frozen corpses. They will reach the eastern border in three days."
The pavilion's small flames flickered as though the air itself recoiled. Ragnar clenched his fist unconsciously, Astrid straightened her posture, and the four lesser clan leaders exchanged looks heavy with panic and decision. Beyond the arena walls, the jubilant crowd roared for champions—unaware that undead armies were marching toward their world, drowning it beneath winter and rot.
Daniel simply exhaled, his expression unreadable, as though he had expected such news, or feared it long before.
And in the twilight, while cheers echoed absurdly against growing dread, war announced itself not with horns… but with a raven's voice.
The pavilion was no longer a resting place. With Muninn's words hanging like frost in the air, it became a war chamber. The leaders gathered around the small brazier at its center, its fire crackling weakly as though afraid to speak louder than the raven's warning. Ragnar Stormbreaker's jaw tightened, Astrid Skyrend's eyes narrowed into a soldier's stare, and the four lesser clan chiefs straightened their backs, as though the weight of command had suddenly grown heavier on their shoulders.
Gilsa, first to be devoured.
Muninn's voice echoed again, a soft rasp of doom: three days. Daniel's gaze remained steady, though his expression had shifted into something hard to read—not fear, not worry, but the quiet measure of someone who had seen this path before.
Jarl Astrid spoke first. "Gilsa… it holds more than fields. It holds people. Families." Her voice carried the tone of a woman who had fought raiders and brigands, who had seen blood mixed with the soil beneath her boots. "We cannot let them be taken."
Ragnar frowned, not in reluctance but in realization. "There are a thousand farmers there. Workers, not warriors. And Krossa is even larger… nearly eighteen hundred souls. And both towns barely hold militias worth mentioning." His tone was bitter. "We should have fortified them long ago."
One of the lesser clan leaders, Jarl Duvi of the Reed Serpents, cleared his throat. "Those towns were not supposed to need fortification. They were saved, were they not? Saved by—"
He stopped, as though afraid the name itself might bite.
All eyes shifted to Daniel.
Gilsa and Krossa carried stories no longer whispered, but spoken with reverence—like prayers given to unnamed gods. Once ruled by bandits who prowled their roads by day and ransacked homes by night, both towns had suffered starvation, plague, rape, and executions in the street. Children died with empty bellies. Elders begged for mercy from men who thought mercy a joke, a weakness. Gilsa and Krossa were no more than graves waiting to be filled… until two figures, clad in living armor, descended upon them beneath moonlight.
No one knew their names.
No one saw their faces.
Some swore the armor pulsed as though alive, like the carapace of great beasts. They cut bandits down without a word. They dragged criminals out into the open and slaughtered them beneath the moon, executioners of justice that did not ask for coin or gratitude. They healed the sick with strange ointments; they fed starving children though no pack hung from their shoulders. They worked until dawn, and when sunlight touched the rooftops, they vanished—only to return the next moonrise.
By the seventh night, every criminal in both towns was dead or vanished. And in place of fear, something else began to grow. First awe. Then rumor. Then belief.
Now, as Muninn's words described draugr and Nuckelavee marching toward those same towns, the elders looked again to Daniel, not because he demanded it, but because fate itself circled back to him.
Jarl Freyvar of the Stone Bears spoke slowly, as though stepping on sacred ground. "Those two wanderers… they brought the Veridica doctrine. The truth-path. The discipline of control. That wasn't chance, was it?"
The pavilion held its breath.
Astrid's voice softened with respect, though she did not look away. "And the name people whisper now. Netherborn. That began with them."
Daniel did not deny it. He simply looked into the brazier, the flames reflecting in his eyes like long-buried memories. "Stories grew because men needed something to believe in," he said at last. "If someone brings healing when wounded lands cry, they become saints. If they punish the wicked, they become myths. But neither is truth."
Ragnar leaned forward. "Then speak the truth. What are the Netherborn?"
Daniel raised his eyes, not proud, not ashamed. Simply present.
"They are not gods. Not demons. Only people who bear what most cannot endure. what ever stories you have heard they are just tales to give sense to what the Netherborn is from their own understanding , as i said before "
His gaze drifted toward the mountains where Muninn had flown from.
"The Netherborn are like your clan, I carry only memories of what humanity refuses to face. Memories that reshape their world, and forgotten everything "
A heavy silence followed.
Then Daniel stood, cloak shifting like a shadow cut from the night itself. "We will save Gilsa and Krossa. But we will save them openly. No more wanderers hiding under moonlight." His jaw tightened, not with arrogance, but duty.
"We will defendand save them as warriors. Not legends."
Ragnar rose as well. "Then the war clan marches."
Astrid stepped beside him. "And the ravens will guide us."
Muninn and Huginn both cawed, their voices crossing like thought and memory braided together, sealing the decision.
Outside, spectators cheered for champions in a tournament.
Inside the pavilion, a real war had begun.
Daniel asked the leaders to hold the fifth round as he shall address everybody, and asked if there are warrior from those two towns who are participating in the tournament? Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend spoke and mention two warrior came from the ton of Gilsa and one came from Krossa , Daniel requested to summon those three as they are needed in the upcoming battle
The pavilion doors were shut, the torches dimmed to a low amber glow. All six leaders waited—Ragnar and Astrid in front, the four lesser clan chiefs behind them—eyes searching Daniel for an answer that had not been spoken in generations. The air seemed to thicken with expectation.
Daniel exhaled slowly, then spoke in a tone far more solemn than any he had used that entire day.
"We cannot fight the dead with metal alone."
Ragnar frowned. "Steel cuts bone."
"Aye," Daniel answered, "but bones do not fear the bite of steel. Smash their skulls, and their bodies will still rise to cut you in half. Strike their chests, and they will keep walking. They are not driven by life… but by echoes."
Astrid stepped forward, brow furrowed. "Echoes?"
Daniel nodded, lifting a hand. "When a man dies violently, something remains. A memory of movement. A memory of hatred. A memory of pain. The undead fight not with flesh, but with imprinted intent. Break the body, and the intent still reaches for you."
The clan leaders stiffened. The fire crackled sharply as though reacting to the truth.
"So how do we kill what has already died?" Ragnar asked quietly.
Daniel's eyes sharpened, the shadows around him moving as if listening.
"You do not kill the body," he said. "You sever the intent."
The pavilion fell dead silent.
"This is a technique I have never taught in the guild. Not because I wished to withhold it… but because no living enemy required it. It was made for one purpose only—war against the unliving."
The leaders leaned in, breath held.
Daniel extended his arm and made a slow gesture—two fingers cutting across the air in a controlled arc, then sharply twisting downward as if slicing through something invisible.
"This is called Hryggrofa," he said, "the Breaking of the Spine-Signal."
Astrid murmured, "Spine-signal?"
"In the undead, the spine no longer carries life," Daniel explained, "but it still carries intent. It is their last connection to movement. Sever that invisible current, and the body collapses—even if the bones stay whole."
Ragnar's eyes widened, remembering how Daniel redirected force earlier in the arena. "A strike not on the flesh… but on the line of motion itself."
"Exactly," Daniel replied. "But such a technique requires more than skill. It requires awareness, and the discipline to look past the enemy's body… into the memory that drives it."
The leaders absorbed this heavy knowledge.
Finally, Daniel's tone softened.
"For now, feed the participating warriors. Let them rest. Some may join the coming battle; others may choose to return home. Both paths deserve honor."
He turned to the two Jarls.
"Ragnar Stormbreaker. Astrid Skyrend."
Both straightened instinctively.
"Summon the ten war clans of the east and central plains. From each clan, bring me your fifty greatest warriors. The rest must stay behind to defend the land and protect those who flee into our borders."
Ragnar nodded. "And where will they meet you?"
Daniel's eyes drifted toward the distant mountains, where the clouds hung low and heavy like coiled beasts.
"In the underground training hall beneath the Skjorn Peaks. There, they will learn the technique… and receive the greatest weapons ever forged for fighting the undead."
THE GATHERING OF THE TEN WAR CLANS
Word spread like a winter gale.
Before dawn broke, ten war banners rose across the east and central plains—each one a symbol of its clan's pride and history. Warriors flocked toward their clan halls, chosen not by favoritism but by deeds, scars, and the weight their names carried.
From the Skaldborn Drengr, fifty warriors stood ready—men and women trained in poetry of blood and blade.
From the Reed Serpents, lithe fighters who moved like water through grass.
From the Stone Bears, giants of muscle and discipline, protectors of ancient oaths.
From the Horse-Sun Raiders, swift and relentless, riding in with storm-like speed.
From the Iron Claw, Wildfang, Shadow-Keld, Red Banner, Frostworn, and Ash Wolves—fifty from each, the finest of every clan.
Across fields and frozen roads, they marched.
Hundreds of boots thundered.Hundreds of voices chanted.Hundreds of warriors gathered.
And at the head of each group fluttered the clan banner—faded, torn, or fresh, but unyielding.
As they approached the Skjorn Peaks, a massive underground gate carved into the mountain began to open, its mechanisms growling like an awakening titan. Lanterns lit the stone corridor within, revealing a sprawling training hall forged out of ancient bedrock—older than any clan remembered.
There Daniel awaited them.
Calm. Silent. Cloaked in shadow yet standing like a pillar of resolve.
Behind him lay long tables covered with strange weapons—curved blades made of blackened metal, staves inscribed with runes, gauntlets that shimmered with faint blue energy, and chains forged from alloys no blacksmith could name.
Weapons not built for cutting flesh…But for severing intent.
When the ten war clans finally stood before him, five hundred warriors strong, Daniel stepped forward and said only one thing:
"Welcome. Today, you do not train to fight men.Today, you train to fight what should not walk this world."
The warriors bowed their heads as one.
The war had officially begun.
The training hall beneath the Skjörn Peaks breathed cold mist from its walls, as if the mountain exhaled through stone lungs. Torches burned in narrowed alcoves, illuminating the assembled champions, five hundred warriors, the chosen fifty from each clan. Their best. Their proudest. Most had broken spears, cracked skulls, or shattered teeth in battle, but nothing had prepared them for the quiet man standing before them, the hooded shadow with a single dagger hanging at his belt.
Near the front of the assembled crowd stood Ragnar Stormbreaker with his chosen fifty. Among them towered iron-willed veterans, scarred skirmishers, and frost-eyed berserkers who had faced death and laughed at it. Yet Ragnar's gaze lingered only on four figures:
Eirunn Stormbreaker, his daughter, slight in frame yet forged in relentless discipline, her empty sleeve pinned neatly at her shoulder, her remaining hand resting on the hilt of her seax like a promise made of steel.
Beside her stood Bjorn Halvarsson, a quiet wolf of a man, tall, broad, and always frowning as though every battle was too small for him.
Then Runa Hallveig, vice-captain of the Stormfangs, eyes like a winter hawk, her braids wrapped tight to keep from whipping into her face mid-fight, posture straight as spearwood.
And at the back were the nine shadows, Eirunn's personal unit, the Shadow Drengr, masked in gray-black cloth, wearing leather built for silent movement rather than pitched war. They followed her not out of pity for her missing hand, but out of awe. They had watched her bleed and refuse weakness. They had sparred with her, and she had thrown them to the ground with one arm until they stopped being surprised.
These fifty stood not as rabble or as hopefuls. They stood as elite. As clan fangs.
Ragnar stepped forward, raising his voice. The whole hall shifted their attention to him. Not a cough. Not a shuffle. Five hundred warriors and the weight of their clans held their breath as though awaiting judgment.
"Before anything else," Ragnar began, voice echoing against the stone like rolling thunder, "we must first address honor."
He turned toward the hooded figure.
Daniel did not move. He did not bow. He stood still, silent, unadorned—like something that did not care what humans called him. The torches flickered in strange rhythm around him, as if the flames themselves recognized his presence.
Ragnar continued:
"Our benefactors walked our lands when no banners flew for them. They healed our sick when no coin was offered. They slew bandits and tyrants without asking for feast or favor. They gave us protection with no demand for tribute."
The warriors murmured agreement. Even the proudest Jarls nodded.
"For too long," Ragnar said, his voice deepening, "we called them only by rumor. 'Dark Wanderers,' we whispered. Yet they are not simply wanderers. They are descendants of a race from old stories—Netherborn, bound to the roots of this land by blood older than our sagas."
Eirunn lifted her chin. Runa's eyes narrowed with awe. Bjorn's breath came slow and heavy, the way it did before war. The Shadow Drengr straightened , instinctively, respectfully.
Ragnar spread his arms wide so all could hear:
"Thus, from this day forward, we no longer call him a wanderer."
His voice thundered through the hall.
"We call him Netherlord."
" may sound the same but a being with such power must have a proper delegation of a real name emphasizing power and authority ."
" rather make complicated titles, , a nether being with a title of a lord is perfect."
The word struck the air like a hammer against anvil.
Ragnar's explanation revealed the subtle brilliance behind what might at first seem a simple name. "Netherlord" was deceptively straightforward, yet in its simplicity lay a precise calibration of meaning and weight. To the untrained ear, it was just a compound word, but to Ragnar, and to anyone attuned to the aura of power, it resonated like a hammer on an anvil, striking with clarity and authority.
He argued that beings of such immense strength did not need convoluted titles or florid honorifics; true dominance did not hide behind excess, it asserted itself plainly. "Nether" evoked the void, the shadowed realms beyond mortal reach, a space of untouchable power. "Lord" conveyed command, mastery, and unchallenged authority.
Together, the two syllables fused into a name that was both immediate and timeless, simple yet resonant, projecting an aura of fear, respect, and inevitability. Ragnar's reasoning made it clear: sometimes the simplest words carry the heaviest weight, and in this case, "Netherlord" was perfection incarnate.
NET-HER-LORD.
A single title. A name carved with respect, fear, and gratitude in equal measure.
For the first time, Daniel lifted his head, not to speak, not to bow, but simply to meet their eyes, and in that quiet gaze every warrior felt it:
He was not given a title.
He was claiming one.
He did not strike a war pose. He did not call for weapons. Instead, he stepped toward a straw effigy, shaped crudely into a soldier's frame.
"Your blades, your axes, will not stop the dead," Daniel said, voice as cold as the mountain. "Cutting them down only delays them. Breaking them only slows them. And smashing their skulls will not destroy what animates them."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Some scoffed under their breath. Others swallowed hard.
Then Daniel inhaled.
His stance shifted, not wide, not heavy, but rooted, like the spine of the world dipped into the floor. His shoulders rolled as though loosening armor that was not there.
"You must remove the motion that carries their strike. Not the body that holds it."
He moved.
It was not a strike, but a redirection, fingers brushing the effigy's lifted arm, guiding it past him, shoulder turning with serpentine precision. His hip twisted, and the dummy spun in the air. Daniel barely touched it.
Then,
CRACK.
The effigy slammed into the stone floor, splintering on impact.
Gasps erupted. Even the Jarls stiffened.
Alva Valsmir blinked hard, jaw tightening, her warriors whispering in awe.
Varrik Stonejaw, who had once wrestled a bull to its knees, muttered:
"He barely touched the damn thing…"
Eldra Ironveil stepped closer, eyes narrow, analyzing the technique like a puzzle.Bjorn Raskir grinned with wolfish delight, as if this was the gift he had been waiting for his whole life.
Daniel dusted his palms and continued.
"This is Hryggspenna, the third form of Glíma. It does not stop force. It uses force."
His fingers traced invisible lines through the air.
"Against the dead, who do not feel pain, whose bodies do not care for wounds—you rob them of motion. You bind them with momentum. You throw them back into themselves."
He turned, gaze sharpening like a drawn blade.
"But this is not enough."
The warriors' excitement dimmed into tense silence.
"You must break the magic that keeps them moving. For that, you will need runes."
The First Rune-Healers
Two great doors at the back of the training hall opened. A group stepped inside, led by a woman with hair like winter sunlight and eyes that glimmered with fierce compassion.
Eira Valsmir, age twenty-one. Healer. Chosen by the spirits of her bloodline. Her presence alone radiated calm power.
Beside her walked four strangers, healers, but not like the gentle life-tenders the clans were used to. These held the stance of warriors, scholars, and ironworkers.
Brann Olsvik, twenty-seven,sharp gaze, body scarred by conflict, Seiðr snapping off his palms like compressed lightning.His aura whispered: precision through violence.
Sylvi Harrin, nineteen, modest, soft-spoken, her magic drifting like glowing pollen of spring. Healing that grows like roots.
Torvald Grettik, thirty-three, slow step, heavy breath, his Seiðr rising thick and molten, like a forge given life. The stabilizer, the reforger.
Maevi Ruldar, twenty-five, straight-backed, eyes calculating every breath in the room, her Seiðr forming exact, surgical lines of white. The archivist of magic, the breaker of flaws.
When they bowed, energy pulsed through the air. Even warriors backed one cautious step away.
Daniel raised his voice.
"These are the first Rune-Healers. Not makers of poultices. Not menders of flesh alone. They will carve sacred sigils into your weapons, living runes that break the bond of necromancy."
The hall vibrated with murmurs. Awe. Fear. Hope.
Daniel turned his dagger in his grip, showing its spine, not the edge.
"Runes do not bless metal. They command it. They do not cure weapons. They teach them to kill what should not live."
He pointed to the assembled warriors.
"You will learn Hryggspenna. You will break their movement. Your weapons will break their souls."
Silence swallowed the hall.
And then, like the rumble of a distant avalanche, five hundred warriors thumped their fists to their chests in unison.
Not cheering.
Swearing an oath.
For the first time in generations, the clans were not preparing for war against the living.
They were preparing to hunt the dead.
Daniel's decision to accept the new title, a designation he had conjured on a mere whim, was less about ambition and more about his uncanny understanding of the currents of fate and circumstance. As the unseen and forgotten primordial god, he had long observed the intricate machinery of the world, noting how minor actions ripple outward to create consequences far beyond their initial intent.
In this peculiar instance, he recognized that resistance would be pointless; the situation had already begun to evolve in ways that served his interests, even if no one, not even he, had originally intended such outcomes. By letting things flow and embracing the title openly, Daniel demonstrated a rare strategic patience, allowing events to unfold naturally while subtly guiding them from behind the veil.
It was a conscious surrender to the momentum of reality, a recognition that sometimes influence lies not in forcing outcomes but in bending the existing tide to one's advantage. In doing so, he allowed history to record this act of a race born from superficial reason, a narrative he could manipulate afterward, turning happenstance into legacy.
The underground training hall hummed with tension, torches flickering against stone, shadows trembling like they feared what was about to happen. Ragnar lifted the heaviest war hammer he could find, its steel head bigger than his chest, its weight cracking the floor stone when he dragged it forward. Daniel stood opposite him, cloak loose, posture relaxed, as though he were preparing for a conversation rather than a strike that could crush a man into paste.
Ragnar grinned. "You're certain you want this one?"
Daniel nodded. "Yes. If you swing anything weaker, you'll learn nothing. Now… three strikes. As if you were in the tournament, no hesitation."
Ragnar planted his heel, raising the hammer above his head. Muscles rolled like braided rope across his shoulders. Daniel lifted a hand, palm open.
Before Ragnar swung, Daniel spoke, his voice calm, instructive, yet carrying the sharpness of steel.
"Remember this, all of you. Our enemies are not sacks of straw. Even the undead retain remnants of what they once were. A dead knight still remembers the discipline of a blade. A dead berserker still knows how to break bone. If you treat them like mindless beasts, they'll kill you like weak men."
Ragnar roared, bringing the hammer down in a devastating first strike.
Daniel barely moved. His hand brushed the descending handle with the lightness of a breeze, redirecting, not stopping. The hammer slammed to the ground beside him, skidding as though Ragnar had misjudged his own swing.
Gasps echoed in the hall.
"Force is never discarded," Daniel continued, stepping aside. "Every attack has a direction. Every direction has momentum. And momentum… wants to be used."
Ragnar snarled, twisting his stance and swinging sideways. Second strike. Faster. Meaner.
Daniel didn't block. He leaned into the blow's path, fingers tapping the hammer's side. The weapon jerked, its arc thrown off-course as if pulled by invisible gravity—Ragnar nearly toppled under his own strength.
"Do you see? The strongest warrior doesn't fight strength… he returns it."
Ragnar growled, adapting, planting his feet deep, and hurled his last strike down as if to split the earth itself. Third strike.
Daniel whispered, "And when the enemy gives you everything—"
He slid his palm against the hammer's shaft, guiding its plunge as if helping Ragnar, not resisting.
"you give it back."
The unseen force snapped.
The hammer's own momentum surged backward. Ragnar couldn't hold it—the weapon swung up, yanked by its redirected power, and smashed into his own breastplate, sending him crashing onto his back, air blasted from his lungs.
The hall fell silent.
Daniel lowered his hand. "Never waste effort. Never fight the strike. Let the enemy carve their own grave."
Ragnar wheezed, then burst into a laugh, pounding the floor with one gauntlet. "So that's it—fight without fighting. Use the monster against itself."
Daniel offered his hand to help him up, voice low, deadly calm.
"No. Make the monster fear its own strength."
The hall erupted in awe. The Netherlord's lesson was clear.
The last of the audience filed in just as the sun dipped below the horizon, fire-light gathering in the arena like a second dawn. The watchers who had fallen asleep after the qualifiers returned, half expecting another match, only to find something far more solemn waiting for them.
At the center of the arena stood Jarl Ragnar Stormbreaker, broad as a tower, scarred arms folded across his chest. Beside him, draped in the deep blue war-cloak of the East, stood Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend, tall, fierce-eyed, her braids woven with rings of iron and wolf-bone. The two jarls did not speak, did not move, only waited… as every tier of seating slowly filled, warriors and citizens alike sensing the weight of whatever was about to occur.
Even the competitors, those who had fought only hours earlier—leaned forward from their benches, weapons at their sides, breath held as though awaiting judgment.
When the arena was finally full, the banners of every clan fluttering in the cold wind, Astrid took one step forward. The crowd silenced instantly, as though the frost itself held their tongues.
Her voice rang clear as ringing steel:
"Warriors of the North. People of Veridica. We stand at the edge of a storm, two days from now, the unliving march will strike the towns of Gilsa and Krossa, at our eastern northern border. They do not tire. They do not fear. And they will not stop until every hearth is ash."
She raised her spear to the sky, its runic blade catching firelight like a shard of dawn.
"So we will meet them with a new weapon. Not steel… not shield… but knowledge."
Ragnar stepped forward at her side, booming voice shaking the rafters.
"We name before all clans the one who forged a doctrine that can break the dead and humble the strong! The one who turned force into weapon and made the enemy's power their own! The founder of our new discipline!"
He jabbed a fist toward the arena gate.
"He who created Hryggspenna!"
A roar began to rise, but Ragnar silenced it with a lifted palm.
"And his doctrine… his way of seeing the world, of turning death's strength against itself—this we name the Veridica Doctrine!"
The arena erupted—thousands stomping, blades smacking shields, a thunder of approval shaking the stone itself.
Astrid lifted her spear again, voice full of grim urgency.
"And may this doctrine spread faster than the dead march toward our homes! Let it be our spine, our strength, our unbroken answer to the tide!"
Ragnar shouted one final declaration, voice like a war-horn:
"Let the Netherlord step forward! Let the founder of Hryggspenna stand among us!"
The doors of the arena groaned open.
The crowd held its breath.
Daniel stepped into the light.
The gates did not merely open; they recoiled, as though pushed away by a force that refused to be contained. A howl of wind tore through the arena, shredding dust into a spiral that glared like a storm. And then he stepped out.
Daniel. The Netherlord.
Even at only thirty percent unbound, he radiated power like a ruptured star.
His armor twisted around him in living formation, obsidian plates reshaping themselves into jagged spires, edges folding and unfurling as if breathing. Runes throbbed beneath the black-metal surface, visible one moment, swallowed by shadow the next. Black mist coiled from every seam, writhing like the pulse of a world being crushed.
When he walked, the ground rippled. Not cracked, ripples, as though the stone no longer understood if it was solid beneath him. The air bent away from him, trembling like it feared to be touched, refusing to brush against the being who wore chaos like a mantle.
And his eyes, one gold like a devouring sun, the other a glacial, impossible blue, burned with a command that was not spoken, a truth that bent logic:
This was a god, even if he denied it.
Every spectator felt their knees weaken, not from fear of death, but from the instinctive awe of witnessing something that should not walk among mortals. Some looked upon him and shivered; others bowed without meaning to. Even the warriors, battle-hardened, scar-worn, unbreakable, felt their throats dry as they stared into the contradiction before them.
Spectral wings, vast and shifting like phantoms carved from moonless night, unfurled behind him. Their edges seemed to erase what they brushed against, a sliver of stone railing vanished into ash merely from their proximity. The wings were not flesh, not bone, they were absence, outlined by energy that tortured the shape of space itself.
Time hesitated around him. Flames burned slower near his steps; wind froze then raced ahead. Even sound warped, growing sharper, then muffled, unsure whether to exist near him.
Yet within this annihilating aura, there was elegance, a precise, purposeful control. His chaos did not spill Wilder; it flowed, curved, harmonized, like a blade forged from destruction itself.
Ragnar and Astrid stood closest to him, yet neither jarl could mask the instinctive tremor in their breath. Ragnar whispered, not in fear but reverence:
"Thirty percent… and he chooses to walk among us."
Astrid clenched her spear tighter to keep her hand from shaking. "If this is restraint… then what is freedom?"
Daniel's voice rolled across the arena, calm, unadorned, unforced, yet shaking every bone like the toll of a colossal bell:
"I said I am not a god. I am a guide. The strength you need… does not come from me.It comes from understanding your enemy, and yourselves."
Silence swallowed the stadium. Thousands leaned forward to hear every syllable.
The Netherlord continued, each word echoing with the weight of stars colliding:
"The dead are relentless. But so are the living.Learn. Adapt.And you will make fear kneel to you."
The wind stopped. The mist clung to him, waiting for his next command.
Daniel raised one hand.
The black energy swirled across the arena like a tidal breath.
"Prepare to protect what is important to you, prepare for war!"