Chapter 227
The cheers that had shaken the arena began to fade as practical fear returned. Some of the warriors who only moments before had shouted with admiration now looked uncertain, whispering among themselves. Reports of undead armies, of corpses that remembered how to kill, of death knights who commanded legions, of Völva who whispered souls out of living bodies, felt too large, too distant, too unreal.
Yet Daniel did not blame them. Doubt, after all, was natural among the living; what mattered was not belief but preparedness. His concern rested not with those who questioned him but with the people of Gilsa and Krossa, two small towns sitting like lone candles at the edge of a growing darkness. "If there are Völva among them,
" he warned quietly, "the dead will not simply kill, they will harvest. And if a High Death Knight commands them… the towns will not fall. They will join the march." That truth silenced even the skeptical. Turning to Harald Thryne, son of Varrik Stonejaw, his voice became steel: "Bring me every warrior who hails from Gilsa and Krossa."
Harald obeyed immediately. Soon a crowd arrived, no longer proud competitors, but desperate sons and daughters whose homes hung over the cliff of doom. Fear made their hands restless, their breathing shallow; some whispered too late, too far, impossible to save anyone in time. Daniel saw the panic rising in them like a tide and cut through it with a single order.
"Prepare your forces," he commanded Ragnar and Astrid. "We march at tomorrow at dawn." The words struck the arena harder than any war drum. The skald-born warriors from the boundary towns were rushed toward Mjorska Hall, minds racing with impossible logistics: How does one move a thousand people before the dead arrive? Where will they go, who will feed them, how will they travel with children, elders, food, livestock, carts? Fear tangled every imagined route. Yet when they stepped into Mjorska Hall, every thought froze.
The structure, was already colossal from the outside, was impossibly vaster within, its walls expanding into endless vaults, its fire-halls stretching beyond natural geometry, forges roaring in corners that hadn't existed moments before. Rune-space, a spell cast by Siglorr, had bent reality to store fortresses within a single building. As they stared upward, awestruck, a greater shock emerged from the far end of the hall: a ten-foot armored figure stepped through an enormous archway, its helmet crowned in runic chains, four massive arms bearing two axes and two swords humming with thunder, as if they held storms within their edges.
The construct bowed its head slightly to them, and passed. Beyond it stood the war leaders, already wearing full armor, reviewing maps and runic diagrams with Daniel. The three boundary warriors approached: Freyda Hailbraid, silver-braided and sharp-eyed, voice shaking as she whispered that her people rang bells for storms yet never for horrors like this; Odrik Stonebrow, broad-shouldered and marked by hunting tattoos, voice cracked from losing two brothers to winter raids, murmuring that even raiders caused less ruin than the dead; and Brynhar Ruunmark, a tactician-in-training with a braced arm and sharp gaze, quietly analyzing how Krossa's wall was meant for trade, not war. They drew near as Daniel's voice filled the hall, steady, mercilessly clear, unwavering.
"We will not evacuate them," he declared, freezing the three warriors in a mixture of horror and confusion. "We will make the undead regret stepping foot on our boundary."
Freyda's breath seemed to stop. "We're… not running?"
Daniel turned, one burning eye upon them, his presence crushing yet strangely comforting.
"No," he said. "Your towns will not flee. They will stand. And we will stand with them."
Brynhar Ruunmark swallowed hard, torn between awe and dread. He lowered his head respectfully, voice trembling."Netherlord… I do not dare question your command, but—my family, my clan… I am not from this land. My heart doubts only because they are alone. Seven of them still work our farmland. If I die here, I leave them defenseless."
Daniel stepped closer, and the hall seemed to hold its breath. With a slow, deliberate motion, he placed a hand on Brynhar's shoulder. The young man did not flinch, though his knees nearly buckled under the Netherlord's touch.
"You came here to honor your father," Daniel said, voice low and precise. "To earn recognition through battle… at the cost of leaving those you swore to protect. You seek glory, but fear its price."
Brynhar's chest tightened. Shame and hope clashed within him.
Daniel's grip became reassuring rather than heavy."I promise you, Brynhar Ruunmark: your clan will not be harmed. I shall show you what my teachings can do."
He released him and raised his voice."Master Siglorr, have you finished my humble request?"
From near the forges, a rough voice barked:"'Humble,' my arse! Nothing humble about a weapon that can shatter those blasted creeps to dust!"
Siglorr, still clad in his towering golden golem armor, stomped forward, each step ringing like thunder through the hall. He unlatched a heavy container strapped to his back and set it down at the center of the room. Elders and apprentices leaned forward with curiosity, while the three boundary warriors stared, unsure whether to feel fear or anticipation.
Daniel opened the container, retrieving a pair of gauntlet-like devices, their metal fused with layered runes and pressure channels. Veins of pale blue sigils pulsed faintly across them like sleeping lightning.
"These," Daniel announced, "are Seiðr compression gauntlets. A temporary weapon—deadly, but limited. Designed to bridge the gap for those who have not yet mastered Hryggspenna's third form."
Siglorr's mechanical helm creaked as he nodded, his voice booming through the armor's rune-forged speakers.
"They don't cut, they don't slash, they don't throw blades or arrows. They slam reality itself at an enemy! Compress force into a tiny point, then release it in one vicious burst! Like punching with the strength of a battering ram… but from ten paces away."
Odrik gulped. "So… a rune gun?"
Siglorr scoffed loudly, metal shoulders clanking."A gun? Bah! Guns are toys for cowards who hide behind powder and pellets. These gauntlets use your own Seiðr, your own power. Like Hryggspenna, they steal force from the world and slam it back in the enemy's face! Just—faster. Harder. Ruder."
Daniel continued, lifting one gauntlet so the runes glimmered."Each strike compresses a single moment of kinetic force, stored, multiplied, and focused through these channels. But it must be used at close distance. If you try to fire from afar, the force disperses. At close range, however…"
Siglorr finished the sentence for him, voice like grinding gears."It'll blow a chunk of a death knight the size of a cow's liver clean off!"
Freyda winced. Odrik grinned despite himself. Brynhar touched his braced arm, imagining the recoil.
Daniel added sternly, "Five shots each, no more. After that, the gauntlets must cool, or they will tear your arms off trying to protect you."
Siglorr raised an armored finger."And you'll deserve it for being stupid!"
The hall erupted with quiet laughter, nervous, hopeful laughter.
Daniel set the gauntlets down gently."With these, with training, and with unity—we will not merely defend Gilsa and Krossa. We will make the undead regret ever walking."
The flames in the forges burned brighter, as if the hall itself approved.
War was coming. And now, they would fight it on their own terms.
The moment the gauntlets were placed into their hands, the three young warriors felt as though they had been handed fate itself. Freyda Hailbraid stood rigid, her silver braids trembling against her shoulders as she stared at the metal clamped around her wrists. Odrik Stonebrow ran his thumb over the etched rune channels, his breathing uneven, while Brynhar Ruunmark turned his wrist back and forth, studying the faint hum of Seiðr threading between plates. The weight of the weapon did not come from metal alone, every heartbeat whispered the same fearful truth: they were no longer bystanders hoping their homes would be saved.
They were now expected to save them. Daniel had handed them the tools of death to guard life, yet their thoughts were not filled with glory, but with people, mothers tending fires, children sleeping in haylofts, farmers packing salted fish for the winter's lean days. Freyda whispered, barely holding her voice together, "We rang bells for storms… never for graves that open." Odrik muttered how raiders bled and grew tired" the dead don't," he said, voice thick. Brynhar swallowed hard, his thoughts always returning to the same fragile image of home: his family's fields, the smell of brine from Krossa's docks, his youngest brother clinging to his sleeve the day he left.
It was then that Bjorn Halvarsson, massive, red-haired, and calm as old stone, stepped forward. He had stood silent until now, clad in the deep-red cloak of Redvale, his face partially shadowed beneath a hood. With effortless authority, he motioned them to follow him, leading them toward the corridor that connected Mjorska Hall to the temporary barracks. Freyda, Odrik, and Brynhar walked shakily, still adjusting to the strange pressure of the gauntlets as they listened to their escort speak.
"You think you've been chosen to fight because you're ready?" Bjorn asked, his voice slow and steady. "No. No warrior is ready for their first death march." His warhorse, a midnight-coated beast named Hrafn, walked beside him, its hooves echoing like distant drums. Odrik frowned and asked, "Then why us?" Bjorn looked at him with a half-smirk. "Because you fear losing your people more than losing your lives. That's the mark of a true defender." His words struck them harder than Daniel's command ever had.
As they continued walking, the light along the corridor dimmed into a warmer glow, torches trailing sparks behind them like fading comets. Freyda finally dared to ask what weighed on all of their minds: "Is he truly… the Netherlord?"
Bjorn paused momentarily, glancing over his shoulder as though testing whether the walls themselves were listening.
"Aye," he whispered. "But don't mistake what that means. You look at him and see a young man. You hear him speak with a mortal voice. But that's only a shell. A way to walk among us without making our knees buckle every step he takes."
Brynhar hesitated, his voice small yet sharp, "Then what is his true form?" Bjorn chuckled lightly, though the sound carried no joy. "You wouldn't want to see it. Not unless you were dying or being saved."
They turned a corner, passing under carved arches filled with runic locks pulsing like steady heartbeats. Bjorn continued speaking, his tone softer now, like a teacher recounting a lesson rather than a warrior giving warning.
"I doubted him once. Thought him just a prodigy, maybe gifted enough to lead a battalion if trained well. But then I watched him. I saw rivers still when he commanded them. I saw beasts bow their heads. Not because they feared him… but because they respected him."
Freyda blinked, stunned, whispering, "Nature obeyed him?" Bjorn nodded. "Not by magic. By recognition. The world knows its protector." The corridor opened ahead of them, revealing a row of chambers set aside for temporary lodging, each marked with protective runes, warm beds, and chests for gear.
Before they entered, Bjorn rested his hand briefly on each of their shoulders—like a father sending his children onto the battlefield for the first time. "You fear fighting the dead," he said quietly. "Good. That fear means you'll fight to keep the living alive. And with him leading us… saving your families isn't a hope." His voice grew firm, a vow carved into stone. "It's a promise."
The three stood still for a long moment, feeling both the weight of dread and a rising ember of courage. Freyda clutched her gauntlet as though it were the hand of her village. Odrik's jaw tightened, not in fear anymore, but in resolve. Brynhar touched the runes along his brace, eyes steadying as strategy replaced panic. Outside, the Mjorska forges roared like thunder, preparing weapons for a war none of them fully understood. Yet for the first time, they no longer felt alone. The Netherlord had chosen to stand with them. And so, whether they wished for war or not, they would stand with him.
As they stepped into their sleeping quarters, the warm glow of torches and the faint hum of protective runes did little to settle the nerves that still rattled through their bodies. Freyda Hailbraid glanced around at the simple yet fortified room, then turned to Bjorn Halvarsson, her voice tinged with curiosity and unease. "Why… why are we separated from the rest? There are far stronger warriors in the tournament. Why are we alone?"
Bjorn, his calm composure unshaken, leaned against the doorway and fixed them with a steady gaze. "It's a simple answer," he began, voice low but commanding. "Lord Daniel saw the need to save you, and everybody in your respective homes." He let that hang for a moment, letting the weight of it sink in. "Remember the Veridica Doctrine… the second command: Purposeful Action. Every strike, maneuver, every exertion must serve a purpose. Wasted force, arrogance, or cruelty is dishonorable. Combat is a language, not a show of power. The news about the enemy came to him, and your homes, your families… they are directly in its path. That is why you have been chosen."
Freyda's eyes narrowed slightly, still doubtful. "Yes… we understand that. Our towns were saved by Lord Daniel and Lady Melgil, but wouldn't it be much easier to let us leave, travel back home, and be there for them ourselves?"
Bjorn's words lingered in the room like incense, heavy with truth, and something in Odrik finally cracked open, an old memory spilling out unbidden. His voice, rough as gravel yet softened by awe, trembled into the torchlight.
"One of those towns was Gilsa," he said. "I was away, foraging in the forest for medicinal herbs. My youngest daughter had a failing fever, my wife said she prayed for a miracle, but we had none left to give. When I returned the next morning… our town was singing."
Freyda and Brynhar turned toward him. Odrik continued, voice tightening with emotion he rarely allowed himself to show.
"Those who were sick were healed. The starving were fed. And my children—my sons and my baby girl—were running and laughing, full of life as if death had never touched them. My daughter grabbed my face with her tiny hands and said, 'A beautiful white-haired goddess came and answered my prayer.'"
He exhaled shakily, as though reliving the shock all over again."That was Lady Melgil."
Bjorn nodded as though he had already known the story. "Such miracles are not coincidence. They are purpose. They do not give you food because they are kind. They do not heal because they wish to be adored. They act because life has value, because suffering without reason is a stain, because intervention without purpose would only build dependency. The doctrine demands intent, not charity. Salvation only when it changes the future."
Freyda swallowed hard, a new understanding stirring beneath her fear. She stared at her issued gauntlets, the runic weapon that felt too powerful for her shaking hands.
"…That's why I joined the tournament," she confessed quietly. "To see if the rumors were real, to know who saved us. I wanted to stand on the same ground as the one who ended the bandit occupation in a single night. I thought if I learned what he knew… I could protect Gilsa myself, without miracles."
Odrik let out a bitter chuckle. "I joined for anger. I was angry that it took an outsider, someone not of our blood, to do what our own lords wouldn't dare. I wanted to prove that Gilsa could defend itself. That we weren't just… helpless."
Brynhar's voice grew softer, steadier, as though he were speaking not to the others anymore, but to the memory itself.
"My reason was different. Krossa… suffered from a sickness no healer could name. People fell to coughing fits that drowned them in their own blood. The crops rotted into poison, our water stank like iron and death. Even the wind we breathed felt like it scraped our lungs."
The other two listened, wide-eyed.
Brynhar stared at his gauntleted hands, the runes reflecting dim torchlight.
"On that night, I thought I was going to lose my wife. She couldn't breathe. I held her as her strength left her fingers… and I kept telling her to hold on, even though there was nothing left to hope for."
He swallowed, jaw trembling, but not with fear, only memory.
"Then he came. The Netherlord. No announcement. No spectacle. No servants to announce a hero's arrival. He just walked into our home like a man passing through a storm—calm, unshaken, as if death itself was beneath his notice."
Brynhar drew a sharp breath.
"He didn't ask our names. He didn't promise anything. He raised one hand—just one—and light poured out of him, like moonfire and sunrise mixed together. It swept through us, and the blood stopped, the pain vanished… She breathed again."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"When I looked at him, trying to speak, trying to thank him… he only nodded. Then he stepped past me and went on to the next home. And the next."
Odrik and Freyda stood frozen, breath held.
"befor the sun rose ," Brynhar continued, "I came out from our home, to see dozens of warriors in strange armor, the same design as his. They were serving warm food to the sick and starving. And him, floating above the river. Light poured from his hands again. The water went clear. The smell in the wind changed. The sickness in the soil died. And the crops revived within hours."
He let out a slow, disbelieving laugh.
"It wasn't a dream. The sky literally changed color when he was done."
For a long moment none of them spoke. Even the torches seemed to quiet themselves.
Brynhar continued, quieter still:
"A week later, Krossa was thriving. Our children were playing. Our elders could walk again. Food was plentiful. And then… we started hearing about the Doctrine of Veridica. About how it demanded change, efficiency, purpose, unity. People followed it. They worked instead of waiting. They shared instead of hoarding. And our town became stronger than it ever was."
He lifted his head at last, meeting their eyes.
"That's why I joined the tournament. Not to question him. Not for pride. But to understand how one man could come to a dying place and… not just save it, but teach it how to live again."
Silence settled like the weight of destiny on the room. The three stood there, their reasons laid bare like weapons on a table, vulnerable yet sharper than steel.
Freyda's voice finally broke the quiet, no longer shaking with fear, but with conviction.
"…Then tomorrow, we learn why he saved us."
Odrik nodded, fists tightening with purpose.
"And what we're meant to become because of it."
Brynhar exhaled, feeling something inside him settle, like armor finally fitting right.
"For our towns," he whispered.
"For our future," Freyda added.
"For the Doctrine," Odrik finished.
And in that rune-lit chamber, the fear that had shadowed them since the arena did not vanish—but it changed. It became resolve.
Tomorrow would not be the day they ran.
Tomorrow would be the day they became worthy of being saved.
Bjorn smiled knowingly, arms crossed over his chest. "And now you have your answer. Daniel saved you because it served a purpose. Because leaving your children sick, your towns starving, your communities vulnerable, that would only weaken this land as a whole. Strengthening one village strengthens the next. That is Veridica: protection with meaning, not sentiment."
He stepped toward the door, giving them one last look before leaving them to rest.
"And now, you three carry weapons made from that same doctrine. Not to escape. Not to panic. But to stand with purpose. Tomorrow, you will not fight to protect just your homes. You will fight because your survival changes the fate of every settlement that follows."
He opened the door, letting cooler air flow in from the corridor.
"Sleep. Let doubt die before dawn. The undead march with chaos. We march with intention."
With that, he left them in the rune-lit quiet, each warrior holding their breath as the weight of their reasons, and their purpose, finally settled into their bones like iron. The room no longer felt like isolation. It felt like the first step of becoming exactly who they needed to be.
Freyda, Odrik, and Brynhar exchanged glances. The firelight flickered across their faces, shadows deepening the worry still etched in their eyes, yet Bjorn's words planted a seed of understanding. Their fear of the unknown, their clinging to family and home, was acknowledged, but it was being channeled into purpose, into readiness. And as they settled into the protective, rune-warded quarters, each could feel the weight of responsibility balanced by the faint, steady reassurance that Lord Daniel and Lady Melgil's actions were guided not by whim, but by the very doctrines that had now become their anchor.
The three could not sleep. The air inside the Mjorska Hall felt too heavy, thick with anticipation and the restless breath of warriors who dreamed of battle even in their sleep. Freyda Hailbraid, Odrik Stonebrow, and Brynhar Ruunmark quietly agreed to step outside for fresh air. As they left their temporary quarters, they heard the faint tremor of voices echoing through the wooden corridor. The long hall stretched before them, lit by rows of hanging lanterns, their warm glow revealing door after door, more sleeping chambers, more warriors, more lives bound by the same coming storm. The air carried the scent of sweat, leather, sharpened steel, and burning oil from nearby torches.
Just as they neared the farthest door, the latch clicked open. A young man stepped out, barely older than a youth, yet already wearing the weight of iron upon his shoulders. Arvid Raskir, twenty-three winters old, stood in full armor, helm under his arm, war axe strapped across his back, and a rune-etched gauntlet wrapped around his left fist. His face held no fear or impatience; only focus. He nodded once to them as if acknowledging fellow soldiers, then sprinted down the hall, armor clanking softly, headed straight toward the lower entrance that led to the open training ground.
Freyda raised a brow, watching him go. "He runs like the dawn depends on him."
"Maybe it does," Odrik muttered, still half-stunned by the boy's urgency.
They stepped into the main hall, only to stop cold in awe. The space that once held long tables and feasting benches had been completely transformed. The tables were pushed to the walls, the chairs stacked aside, leaving the center open. Young warriors, scores of them, all around Arvid's age, trained vigorously in every available space. Some practiced the third form of Glíma, their feet sliding and twisting, muscles coiled like wolves in the snow, trying to perfect balance and redirection. Others sparred with dull-edge spears or learned to channel weight through their stance. Every corner teemed with movement, sweat, discipline, and the desire not merely to winm but to be worthy. Their voices did not carry arrogance or excitement. They spoke in low tones, sharing corrections, exchanging insights, studying one another like scholars of war.
Then came a rumbling that shook the floor. Towering armored giants, hulking constructs of steel and rune-bound bone, marched from the storage archway, hauling crates larger than wagons. Freyda felt the vibration through her boots, the ground humming with their weight. Outside the arch, the thunder roared louder.
The three approached and stepped out into the cold predawn air. They froze.
Under the moonless sky, Lord Daniel was still sparring. Surrounded by warriors both seasoned and young, he moved like a storm taught to strike with patience. His sword glimmered with the echo of each movement, not wild or furious, but measured, controlled, a river that cut stone rather than water. Around him, lines of younger warriors mirrored every strike, every deflection, every shift of the foot. Daniel barked short instructions, correcting them with simple precision, stopping mid-swing to break down the angle of a blade or the twist of a wrist. He was not just teaching them how to fight; he was teaching them how to think through steel.
Nearby, Ragnar, along with Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend of the East, walked between the groups. They adjusted stances, tightened grips, and shouted the remaining hours left before rest, two hours and then they would sleep. The sky hinted faint grey on the horizon; six hours until daybreak. Warriors and leaders alike fought fatigue as fiercely as they fought each other, refusing to waste even a breath.
Caravans of supplies were being loaded into wagons. Blacksmiths sharpened blades under small forges set up beside the stables. War horses were being groomed and fed, their eyes alert, their hooves stamping in impatience. The air felt alive, but not reckless. Freyda sensed it deep in her chest, this was not eagerness to wage war. It was something older, colder, and hungrier.
Brynhar whispered, voice barely audible above the din, "They don't want blood. They want worth."
Freyda nodded slowly. "Worth… earned through steel and sweat."
Odrik exhaled, his voice heavier, as though he carried the meaning of the moment in his lungs. "No glory will be given in this war. Only taken."
Brynhar watched Daniel break a young warrior's stance with a single redirected strike, then guide him to correct it patiently. The young warrior bowed, not from fear, but from gratitude.
"Look at them," Brynhar murmured. "This isn't training. This is awakening."
Freyda's eyes narrowed, her voice sharpened with quiet awe. "They're preparing not to win battles… but to become legends."
Odrik's hand tightened around his belt axe. "And we stand among them." He swallowed hard, almost humbled by the weight of it. "We better be worthy."
The thundering steps of rune-forged giants echoed again, and sparks from blades illuminated Daniel's silhouette, unyielding, vigilant, relentless. Each strike, each correction, each young warrior pushing past exhaustion carried the same silent vow:
The air tasted of frost and iron.
Daniel stood among the young warriors, their breaths rising in pale steam beneath the star-bleached sky. Every muscle in his body ached from hours of demonstration, but pain was a familiar companion, never an obstacle. What mattered was in front of him: the transformation of hesitation into discipline, of raw energy into controlled intent. He watched the line of students repeat his last sequence, their movements less frantic now, their strikes flowing instead of forcing themselves forward.
"One more time," Daniel commanded.
He drew a slow upward slash, pivoted his stance, and let the weight of his arm carry the blade into a smooth redirecting sweep. No aggression. No wasted motion. Violence with purpose. The young warriors mirrored the movement again, and this time, they understood. Their attacks no longer chased strength; they chased precision.
Daniel nodded once. "Good. If you control your weight, you control the fight."
A boy near the middle of the formation, no older than Arvid, straightened with fierce determination. "Weight is the weapon, not the steel," he recited. His voice wavered, but his stance did not.
Daniel recognized him. Irven Solvik, son of a scribe, not bred for war, not trained for it. And yet, here he stood, fighting to carve his place.
"Step forward," Daniel ordered.
Irven obeyed. Daniel raised a training blade toward him. "Strike me."
The boy hesitated only long enough to breathe, then lunged. His form was decent, but his momentum pushed too far. Daniel caught the attack, redirected it with a soft shoulder shove, and the boy stumbled forward almost harmlessly.
"Again," Daniel said gently.
Irven attacked once more. This time, he held himself back, controlled his step, and let the blade follow his balance rather than his fear. Daniel met it, turned it aside, and let his palm press against the boy's forearm, not striking, merely guiding.
Irven regained his footing almost perfectly.
Daniel's voice cut through the cold air. "Do you feel that?"
Irven nodded. "I do. I didn't fall… because I wasn't trying to overpower you."
"No," Daniel corrected. "You didn't fall because you weren't trying to impress me. You trusted your stance." The boy's shoulders straightened, a quiet pride blooming there—not pride in power, but pride in change.
Daniel turned back to the formation. "That is what earns worth. You do not come here to prove you can be strong. You come to prove you can become better."
A murmur passed through the young warriors, not cheering, not bragging. It was a collective acceptance, a vow settling deeper in their bones.
Ragnar's voice echoed from the stables, shouting time. One hour left. Astrid adjusted a spearman's grip near the training racks. The rune-forged giants stomped back into the hall, carrying more supplies. Fires hissed and cracked. Every rhythm of the fortress beat in unison.
Daniel observed them, not the swords or the axes or the runes on the gauntlets, but the focus in their eyes, their refusal to yield to fatigue, their fight against themselves, not against each other. This was the making of warriors. Not killers. Not brutes. Warriors with intent. Warriors who would hold their ground not for glory, but for legacy.
Another boy raised his weapon. A girl tightened her gauntlet straps beside him. Each of them silently repeated their vow: We will change. We will be worthy.
Daniel sheathed his practice blade and stepped back. "Continue without me. Perfect your stances. Help each other. You have one hour to sharpen your minds."
The young warriors bowed their heads, not to worship him, but to acknowledge that they would carry the teachings themselves. That was the true victory.
As Daniel walked toward the forge to inspect weapons and check supplies, he felt something he rarely allowed himself: certainty. Not in winning battles, but in the future being built in sweat and discipline beneath this predawn sky.
The first light of dawn bled slowly over the horizon, thin streaks of crimson and pale gold breaking across the frost-covered fields. The fortress stirred with measured purpose. War horses snorted clouds of steam as stable hands tightened their barding; runes across their armor glowed faintly like embers waking to fire. Spears were inspected, axes sharpened until they whispered when drawn from their sheaths. No one rushed, no one shouted. It was not the frenzy of men who hungered for blood. It was the stillness before a storm, organized, focused, guided by intent.
Those who had trained through the night gathered at the courtyard, nearly half of the young warriors who had come merely to compete in the tournament now stood ready, not with arrogance, but with fire in their hearts. They wished to join the march. Their eyes shone with eagerness, voices steady with the call of battle. But as they pressed forward, Daniel descended the stair in his Netherlord form, and the air around him bent like heat over flame. His armor was a living paradox—obsidian angles and mirrored void, crowned in shifting spires that pulsed softly like a heartbeat in the dark. Black mist flowed around him, yet never touched the ground, defying gravity. His presence alone silenced them.
"You wish to march," Daniel spoke, his voice layered, as if an echo followed each word from another plane. "You wish to fight beside us."
Many nodded, some knelt, others clenched their fists with conviction.
Daniel looked across them, not at their weapons, but at their untested determination. "Listen well. I will not throw you into a battle to die like cattle. I will not send your bodies home for your loved ones to mourn in confusion, holding bones and broken steel." His eyes, one gold, one blue, glowed with harsh clarity. "Honor and dignity mean nothing to the mothers, the children, and the kin who must live without you, who must endure your absence while holding nothing but grief."
Silence held the courtyard like a frozen breath. Some warriors looked down, not out of shame, but realization. Daniel continued, yet his tone softened like tempered steel. "Strength is not proven by rushing into danger. It is proven by knowing when your life must be risked… and when it must be safeguarded. Watch first. Learn. If you understand the battlefield, if you know you can stand, not merely die, then I will welcome you among us. Not as bodies to use, but as warriors of purpose."
No one protested. No voice rose in ego. Instead, heads bowed with respect, not to a lord, but to one who valued their lives enough to protect them from their own pride. Ragnar nodded approvingly. Astrid crossed her arms, satisfied. The clan leaders understood: a commander who respects life is one whom people will die for willingly.
Then, the ceremony began, not of incense or chanting, but of readiness. Each warrior touched their weapon to their heart, then to the earth, swearing to fight only with intent, never with waste. A quiet murmur followed, not loud like a battle cry, but deep like a vow sinking into their souls. After this rite, Daniel raised his hand, and the air behind him cracked like shattered glass.
Reality rippled.
Space bent.
A gate formed, two towering fangs of obsidian mist twisting outward into a circular void, where no color existed, only shifting starlight and distant sounds like grinding stone. Daniel stepped forward, and the world warped around his footfall. With a single stride, they emerged not on the cold courtyard floor, but in the town square of Gilsa, quiet and untouched by war… yet just hours away from danger. The sky above the town seemed unaware of their sudden arrival, the chimneys still smoking with morning fire, the people unaware that war crept toward them.
Gasps erupted among the young warriors.
Freyda Hailbraid clutched her chest, trembling. Odrik Stonebrow nearly fell to his knees. Brynhar Ruunmark could only stare at the ground his boots now stood upon, the very cobblestone of his home. None could comprehend how one step had carried them across leagues of land, faster than a storm, faster than thought itself.
Daniel turned to them, calm, almost indifferent to the astonishment. "Freyda. Odrik. Brynhar. You know this place well. Tell your people that help stands with them."
The three could barely speak, but eventually words formed. Freyda whispered, "How… how is such a thing possible?" Brynhar answered for her, voice thick with awe rather than question. "Because… Netherlord is not a title." He looked up at Daniel with fear and devotion entwined. "It is who he is."
Those who had already witnessed Daniel's impossible gifts, the drows, the ravens, the clan leadersonly smiled at the shocked faces around them. They had learned long ago: Daniel's name was not bestowed. It was earned.
And now Gilsa would witness it, too.
Freyda Hailbraid and Odrik Stonebrow wasted no breath. The moment Daniel nodded to them, they mounted two waiting war horses, kicked into a gallop, and thundered across Gilsa's cobblestone paths. Hooves hammered against stone as the two riders split the early morning hush, their breath steaming in the cold air. Doors cracked open, children peered through shutters, and farmers dropping morning tools froze as they recognized the sigils on the riders' new gauntlets—the mark of those trained under the Netherlord himself.
They reached the town hall and tore on the rope that rang Gilsa's bell. The old tower shook, its clang echoing across rooftops like a storm calling ships back to harbor. People rushed into the square, not with confusion, but anxiety already seeded by whispers carried through ravens and rumors of moving corpses in distant farms. When Freyda called out, they didn't doubt her—not after all that had once happened here.
"Gather your families! Take only necessities! We march under Netherlord's command!" she shouted, voice breaking but strong.
And then… the sight that ended all hesitation. Across the horizon, visible even from Gilsa's edge, stood a formation of armored silhouettes, hundreds of warriors, glimmering faintly under the pale dawn. The town saw them standing like a wall of steel and will. These were not raiders. These were not mercenaries. Their posture was disciplined, their stillness louder than any war cry. And beside them… a ripple in the air, a distortion of light , Daniel's form, unmistakable.
Bjarke Erling, the town leader, stepped forward then. A man in his fifties, broad-shouldered despite age, braided beard streaked with iron-grey, and eyes hardened by years of watching people die helplessly, until Daniel saved them. He raised a hand to quiet the growing panic, but before he spoke, a shadow swept overhead. A great raven circled once, then descended and landed on the roof beam above him. Its feathers shimmered like midnight oil, its eyes gleaming with intelligence far beyond animal instinct.
"Huginn…" Bjarke whispered, recognizing the raven that many had seen perched near Daniel before miracles. The bird croaked a low, resonant call, and the murmurs in the crowd turned into stunned silence.
bjarke lifted his voice, no longer merely that of a town elder, but that of a man transformed by awe and faith. every word carried the weight of history, of memory, of lives saved. "the rumors are true," he called, voice strong and unwavering despite the fear in his chest. "the undead march toward usbut fear not! our benefactor has returned to protect us! the one who healed our sick, who restored what was lost, who guarded our homes when all others slept… he stands with us again!"
People gasped, but they didn't scream. They moved with quiet purpose, not out of fear, but because they knew exactly what to do. Mothers called out to children, their voices steady, "Come, Olvir, step carefully!" Elders guided one another toward wagons, murmuring reminders: "Fill only what is needed… don't rush… follow the path we practiced." Farmers and shopkeepers shouted instructions across the square, directing neighbors with calm authority: "Line up the carts! Tie the bundles! Check on your family first!" Even the youngest teens moved with precision, helping elders and younger siblings, echoing the rhythm of a life they had long been taught but now understood fully.
A mother turned to her daughter and whispered, "Remember, we move together. Do not separate. Follow the bells if you lose sight of me." The daughter nodded, her small hands grasping tightly at the hem of her cloak.
Bjarke Erling's voice rose above the murmur, firm but not commanding: "This is no longer just survival. We act because it is our duty to each other. Every step, every choice, has meaning. Let this day prove that we can protect what is ours, not recklessly, but with purpose."
A father, helping his wife carry a bundle of grain, spoke to his neighbors, voice full of reverence: "See? It is as Daniel taught us. Every movement has a reason. Every breath, a choice to preserve life, not waste it. We are not left to chance, we are guided."
Even the children, wide-eyed and unsure, murmured their understanding aloud: "We move together… we help each other… we do what we must."
In that moment, it was not fear driving them, it was clarity. They weren't just reacting to danger; they were participating in a living lesson, a rhythm of life Daniel had instilled in them long before this day. Each resident understood instinctively that they were being guided toward a better future. They weren't merely fleeing; they were walking into a new way of life, shaped by the purpose and foresight of the one who had saved them before.
Bjarke's gaze drifted as if seeing that moment again. He remembered how his mother coughed blood into a cloth stained black from poisoned lungs… how his father could no longer lift his head. And most vividly, his youngest son, little Olvir, only eight, who had lost his arm to a raid attack All three dying. All three were hopeless.
Daniel had walked into their home without ceremony introduce himself as Netherborn many days ago, without worship. No chanting, no pomp. Just quiet purpose. His hand, bathed in white-blue light, touched flesh that was gone, and bone grew, muscle formed, skin stretched in perfect shape. He watched fingers bloom back into being, one by one. His parents who had been choking on death itself breathed clean air. His son's laughter returned with a voice that sounded stronger than life.
That was not healing. That was a god's work.
So when Bjarke shouted toward his people now, it carried the weight of faith carved from memory: "We do not run in fear. We follow purpose! Prepare to move! Every life matters, we will not leave a single soul behind!"
Huginn beat its wings once in thunderous affirmation, and the people responded, not with screams, but with disciplined urgency. Children were passed safely from hand to hand, elders supported, carts filled with nothing excessive. Daniel's doctrine had touched them long before this day. They knew what to do.
Across the square, Freyda and Odrik glanced at each other, realizing something extraordinary.
Their home was not panicking.
Their home was preparing.
And without speaking it aloud, they both knew why.
They believe. Not in a title… but in the being who bears it.
The words of Bjarke Erling settled over Gilsa like a cleansing wind, reshaping the rhythm of every heartbeat in the town. Mothers, fathers, elders, and children no longer moved in panic, they moved with purpose, each action deliberate, each step measured. Bjarke himself walked to the center of the square, chest lifted, voice steady, and gestured toward the streets and alleys. "Follow the doctrine!" he commanded, echoing the principles found in the Veridica doctrine had instilled through his presence and deeds. as Siglorr sent of countless pamphlets since Daniel started their secret campaign to purge and establish a new foundation to whom he also co created.
"Every movement, every decision, serves life. Waste nothing, act with reason, and protect one another!" At his words, groups fell into synchronized patterns: families organized into tight clusters, wagons aligned and packed with provisions, and the sick and elderly were placed in central wagons guarded by able-bodied townsfolk. Children ran errands with calm precision, delivering food and water where it was needed, while teenagers guided livestock through narrow lanes, ensuring every path was clear.
Even the town guards, seasoned in ordinary threats, paused in astonishment as they observed the rhythm of their neighbors: people who had once been ordinary citizens now embodied the principles of Veridica, purposeful, aware, disciplined. "Do not scatter!" Bjarke's voice rang across rooftops. "Do not waste effort on fear! Every action now shapes our survival and our future!" And the townspeople, hearing the conviction in his tone, did not question; they moved as if the lessons of a lifetime had been distilled into these few hours.
Their eyes met one another with understanding, their hands reached out where help was needed, and a sense of unity grew stronger than any previous memory of the town. They were no longer simply fleeing a threat—they were actively building their survival, their lives ordered by principle, guided by faith, and transformed by the example of one who had shown them that purpose could turn fear into resolve. In that moment, the doctrine was no longer words, it was life itself, flowing through the streets, the alleys, the squares, and the hearts of every resident.