Chapter 217
For a long moment, Daniel stood motionless, letting the whisper of distant winds and the faint hum of runes settle into the silence around him. His armor glowed faintly, lines of void-light pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the metal—and each pulse seemed to steady his breath, calm his thoughts, and sharpen the edges of his awareness.
He closed his eyes.
Conquer Valdyrheim.The quest burned behind his vision like an etched command.
But force… brute conquest… it wasn't him.At least, not the man he had become since waking in this world.
Daniel exhaled slowly, and the runes dimmed in response.
"This realm," he thought, "is shaped by sagas, tradition, the echo of gods. These people don't kneel because they fear, they kneel because they respect."
He paced, fingers brushing the cold surface of his armor. Emotions still awkward, still unfamiliar—tightened in his chest. Frustration. Worry. A flicker of doubt he rarely acknowledged.
He swallowed.
"The Second Floor in the old game never asked for this," he reflected bitterly. "Now the gods want me to reshape an entire culture? A belief system? Am I even the person capable of that?"
The weight of responsibility pressed on him, and in that uncertainty, his mind drifted—unbidden—to his human parents.
Memories he rarely allowed surfaced:
His father's steady voice at the dinner table:"Strength isn't forcing people to follow you, son. Strength is earning the right for them to choose you."
His mother's warm hand on his shoulder when he felt lost:"If you want to lead people, start by understanding them. People cling to belief because it gives them safety. Don't take their safety away—give them a better one."
He paused.
Those lessons, so human and so ordinary, suddenly felt sharper than any rune he had ever carved.
"So that's it…"His voice was barely a whisper. "I don't conquer Valdyrheim by breaking them. I conquer it by becoming someone they can trust, someone whose vision is stronger than the gods they fear."
A belief system they could still see themselves inside—but one that freed them from superstition and divine chains.
A path rooted in courage, reason, personal growth. Not blind worship.
"A new saga," he muttered."One they write with their own hands."
And as that realization settled, the transformation began.
Phase-one, Netherborn Unbinding
The air thickened.Shadows curled at Daniel's feet, coiling up his legs like living ink. His heartbeat deepened, each thud resonating through his bones until it felt like the whole world vibrated with him.
The seal his armor ignited. and because the tower granted his use of his skill, Daniel can now access Chaos energy at twenty percent, it was enough for now,
A ring of rune symbols shimmered faintly around Daniel, each one carved into the shifting surface of his void armor. The armor was no longer a single material, it had become a living lattice of liquid metal, flowing like a river of mirror-darkened mercury whenever he willed it. At times it hardened into solid black steel, smooth and seamless. At others it dissolved into black smoke, drifting around him as particles so fine they could pass unnoticed through cracks of stone or gaps of armor. And when necessary, it became something between, half-fluid, half-smoke a veil of shapeless power that bent light and sensation alike.
Daniel had always admired its versatility.
It moved without sound.It drew no attention.To the untrained eye, it was invisible, almost like a phantom appendage tied directly to his breath and heartbeat. The armor did not merely follow him; it was him. A reflection of his will, shaped by thought and intent as naturally as a hand responding to instinct.
It allowed him to live as he wished: to feel pain without dying, to confront danger without fear, to walk the realms freely while still retaining the vulnerability needed to grow.
For despite its limitless potential, the armor did not shield him from all suffering. By Daniel's own command, it let injuries reach him, controlled, measured, so he could learn, adapt, and evolve without being destroyed. Pain, to him, was not a punishment but a teacher.
And now, after a few moths of restraint, the Chaos Engine, the core of ancient Netherborn chaos power, had merged completely with the void armor. There was no distinction anymore. What once were separate systems of defense, enhancement, memory, and energy had fused into a single boundless entity.
Every skill Daniel had learned…every technique he had refined…every spell, rune, or strike he had ever mastered…
all were imprinted into the armor's shifting form, etched into its eternal memory like constellations scattered across the night sky.
It had no limits now. No fixed shape. No boundaries.
It was the perfect partner for the new path he was about to walk.
And as Daniel took a slow breath, feeling the armor pulse in harmony with his thoughts, he understood that this was more than a transformation.
It was the beginning of becoming whole.
Daniel lifted his hand.
The void answered.
Black mist coiled around his fingers, writhing like the pulse of a dying star, tugging at the threads of reality and unraveling the world with each deliberate motion. His armor shivered, reshaping itself, plates elongating into jagged spires of obsidian, edges slicing the air like a predator's claw, curves folding inward like nested eclipses that swallowed light whole.
Daniel's eyes burned with impossible fire, one molten gold, the other piercing blue, twin beacons in the shadowed chaos. They did not merely see; they commanded, bending even the abyss to their gaze, a lighthouse of awareness and menace amidst the darkness.
Thin, spectral trails of energy drifted from him, not hovering but reaching, probing, twisting space into impossible geometries. They shimmered in colors that should not exist: the black of absence punctuated by flashes of violet and silver lightning, like the cosmos bleeding into the void.
The ground recoiled beneath him, fissures spreading outward where his presence touched, reality bending in subtle, unnatural waves. Air vibrated with the weight of what he had become, a predator not of flesh but of form and substance, reshaping the world like clay.
His wings, if they could be called that, unfurled from the smoke of darkness trailing behind him, neither fully solid nor entirely phantom, sharp as razors, immense enough to eclipse mountains. They shifted and writhed, folding into new shapes, testing the limits of space itself. Each motion carried the promise of erasure, a reminder that this was no being to reason with, only to fear.
Yet amid the predatory grandeur, there was a strange elegance in the destruction, a terrible poetry in the way he pulled at the universe, bending it to his will. Time itself hesitated near him, stretching and compressing, uncertain whether to continue or unravel. And always, those eyes, left molten gold, right piercing blue, held you in their orbit, a cosmic warning: this was Daniel, and the universe itself bent to his gaze.
His voice deepened, layered with something ancient.
"Phase One…" A slow, steady inhale."…unbound."
His irises bled into a deep, luminous amethyst. A faint echo of something vast—predatory, calm, inevitable, settled behind his eyes.
Not monstrous. Not destructive.
Focused. Purposeful. Ready.
The Realm Shifts
Across the land, creatures paused mid-movement. Birds fled the treetops. Wolves tucked their tails and hid beneath roots. The winds circling the mountains faltered, as if something unseen had taken hold of them.
The runes carved that were shattered all over the ancient unseen land , these stones flickered some dimming, others burning brighter, as if ancient forces were rising from sleep.
Old gods murmured in the cracks between worlds. Some in warning. Some in fear. Some in interest.
Valdyrheim felt it.
Valdyrheim , The wind Before the Storm
In the flat vast open seemingly endless terrain , atop the broken spears of the Skjorn Peaks, the young warriors that followed Daniels new teaching , paused in their training as thunder rolled across a cloudless sky.
Women sharpening axes stopped mid-stroke.men clutching training swords looked to the mountains.Old men telling sagas went silent, sensing a shift in the thread of fate.
The Skald-born, forged in the crucible of storm and song, felt something approaching.
Not a god.Not a tyrant.
Something… changing.
And though they had always expected that change would come someday, none of them dared put it into words. Deep inside, the thousands of residents of Storm Skjorn Fjord had clung to a quiet hope, that the name Netherborn was merely an epithet, a dramatic title spoken by bards to glorify old tales. A legend. A warning. A metaphor for a power that once walked the mortal paths but no longer existed.
They prayed it was not literal. They prayed it was not real.
For if the stories were true, if the Netherborn was a being beyond divinity , forged not by divine decree but by his own unshakable will, then the world they understood would begin to tremble.
And now the tremor had come.
Across the high valleys and storm-split plains, the pulse of awakening rippled like a shockwave beneath the skin of the earth. The skald-born felt it in their bones first: a faint thrum, as if the very threads of fate tightened with purpose. Then the warriors noticed, their instincts sharpening, breath hitching, hands pausing on hafts of axes and grips of swords.
It was the feeling of a saga preparing to unfold.
A saga of the man who had walked among them quietly, respectfully, learning their strength and honoring their culture… yet holding inside him a depth far older, far darker, and far more resolute than any of them imagined.
A man who now moved with intent.
His intent.
A path he alone chose, beyond gods, beyond tradition, beyond fear.
Wordless understanding spread through the people like wind stirring tall grass. The legends were no longer distant echoes. They were present, breathing beside them. Living. Awakening. And the realm, proud and ancient, felt the weight of what that meant.
The Skald-born had spent generations building their beliefs on sagas, gods, oaths, and the cycle of honor and sacrifice. But the force rising within their borders, a force neither divine nor mortal—would shatter the foundation of what they thought unshakeable. It would challenge everything they held sacred. It would force them to ask themselves what strength truly was, and who deserved to lead them into the next age.
Because the Netherborn, this quiet wanderer who had lived among them, fought beside them, and bled for them, was preparing to begin something new.
Something irreversible.
Something that would not merely change Valdyrheim, but redefine it.
A new path waited ahead of them, one they had never dared imagine. And as thunder rolled across a sky that should have been silent, they understood:
The saga was beginning. And they would be forced to choose whether they walked alongside him—or were left behind in the ashes of the old world.
A path Daniel was preparing to carve.
And as the winds carried the echo of his awakening, the Realm of Valdyrheim braced for an age it had never known,
an age where sagas would be rewritten by a man born from void and human heart.
The pulse of Daniel's awakening lingered in the air long after the thunder faded, spreading across the realm in slow, concentric waves, felt more in the soul than in the skin. It seeped through the old forests of the east, rippled across the iron-red plains of the south, and climbed the towering ribs of the northern mountains until even the oldest rune-stones began to hum in answer. Something ancient had moved. Something the sagas whispered of, but never expected to find form again.
And in the heart of Valdyrheim, where the wind carved its song through jagged peaks and longhouses clung to cliffs like stubborn warriors refusing to kneel, Storm Skjorn Fjord stirred.
Towers of carved basalt loomed over the great harbor, their spires etched with the runes of a thousand years. Black iron banners shaped like wolf jaws swung in the rising breeze, clanging softly against their chains. Below them, the streets bustled with tension—war-smiths hammering through the night, shieldwrights sanding fresh-painted sigils, and merchants closing stalls early as rumors swept the docks like wildfire.
People felt it before they understood it.A restlessness.A pressure in their lungs when they breathed too deeply.A whisper at the edge of hearing that made even hardened warriors glance over their shoulders.
Above the city, the great council hall, The Spearhold, sat upon its cliff, overlooking the fjord like a watchful guardian. Its pillars were carved from ancient sea-stone, streaked with veins of silver that glittered when lightning flashed across the horizon. Tonight, every brazier inside blazed with blue fire, casting long shadows that danced across the stone floor like ghostly warriors preparing for battle.
Inside, voices clashed like steel.
Ragnar Stormbreaker, broad-shouldered, storm-eyed, with a braid heavy with iron rings—stood at the center of the long hall. His presence dominated the room, not through arrogance but through the calm authority of someone who had faced death enough times to walk beside it comfortably. The wolf-pelt across his shoulders rose in the cold air as he read the final lines of the letter clutched in his hand.
Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend's seal, cracked open and hastily delivered by a Stormfang rider, lay broken beside him on the table.
Her message had been clear, her tone fierce but edged with desperation:
"Sioa has fallen. The dead walk under the command of a cursed Völva.Draugr have grown stronger, faster more hateful.If any clan still honors the warrior's code,send aid."
Even among the chaos of the east, few jarl-born had the courage to put those words to parchment.
Ragnar exhaled slowly, the weight of the message like an axe lodged in his ribs.
Around him, the leaders of the minor clans murmured—some restless, some fearful, others trying to mask their dread beneath bravado.
Old Hrolf of the Ravenpeak Clan slammed a fist on the table."She speaks true. My scouts saw the smoke, Sioa is ash!"
Brunna Frostweaver, shieldmistress of a clan from the northern lakes, clenched her jaw."If that Völva marches further, the entire east will collapse. And the east falls… the south follows."
One of the newer clan leaders, young but sharp-eyed, swallowed hard."And the Skyrend lands were never supposed to fall. Not them. Not Astrid."
Others spoke over one another:
"She wouldn't ask for help unless the situation was dire.""A Draugr curse that evolves? Impossible.""No, worse. Someone is guiding it."
Ragnar raised a hand, and the hall stilled instantly.
He looked not at the clan leaders, but toward the open balcony, where the storm clouds churned unnaturally despite the lack of wind.
"You all felt it," he said, his voice low, steady. "The shift. The pulse."
Uneasy glances were exchanged.
Hrolf nodded slowly."Aye. As if the world itself inhaled."
"It was him," Brunna whispered. "The wanderer. The Netherborn."
A silence so deep it felt like a held breath followed.
Some of the minor leaders crossed their arms, a few muttered prayers, and one whispered a warding rune under his breath.
Ragnar's gaze hardened.
"The sagas were never wrong," he said. "They only waited for the right moment to come true."
He turned back to Astrid's letter, fingers tightening around the vellum.
"The east burns. Draugr rise. And Astrid Skyrend, who has never once bent her knee to fear—calls for aid."
He looked at the clans one by one, not as a lord, but as a warrior demanding truth.
"If we still follow the Code of Honor, if we still call ourselves warriors of Valdyrheim, then ignoring this call is cowardice."
No one dared speak.
A decision heavier than steel hung over them.
Ragnar drew in a slow, thunder-deep breath.
"Prepare the clans," he commanded. "Send riders. Gather shields. Call every blade that still remembers its oath to this land."
A spark of determination—mirroring the pulse Daniel had unleashed—ignited within the hall.
"We march east at dawn."
The minor clans bowed their heads in agreement, some reluctantly, some with grim resolve, but all united beneath the same understanding:
Something greater than a war was starting.Something older than sagas.Something that would decide what Valdyrheim would become in the age ahead.
Astrid would not stand alone., And as the blue braziers flared higher, casting long shadows that reached toward the balcony
In the east, Astrid Skyrend's hall, carved from white-streaked granite and crowned with the banners of her forebears, trembled not from wind, but from the weight of news arriving faster than any courier could manage. The letter from Ragnar Stormbreaker lay open on her war table, the ink still fresh, but the promise it carried aid from the northern clans, breathed life into her veins like fire.
Her fingers traced the seal absently, the symbol of Stormbreaker etched with iron and storm motifs. She had spent years commanding her eastern territories, holding the borderlands together with the stubborn courage of a Shieldmaiden, but even she could feel the shadow pressing in, the Draugr, Mira's growing power, and now the creeping terror of a force that had not simply awakened but had chosen a path.
Astrid's eyes, storm-grey and unyielding, lifted to the horizon visible through the high hall windows. The swamp-laden lands to the east, once dotted with isolated villages and fortified posts, were now silent, an unnatural quiet that whispered of the death she had yet to see, and the Draugr she had yet to face. Her jaw clenched.
"They will not take the east without knowing the cost," she muttered, voice low but resolute. She summoned her lieutenants, her call a clarion that cut through the anxious murmurs of her people. Shields were readied, walls inspected, and signals of alarm prepared along the rivers and lakes that wound like silver serpents through the terrain. Every able-bodied warrior would be drilled, every trap reviewed, and every loyal Skald-born reminded of the code that bound them: courage, honor, vigilance.
Far to the center , beyond the eastern highlands and the fjord's black peaks, Daniel took his first leap, as he floated and rode the east winds like a the god of wind Njǫrd, toward the eastern lands, a deliberate, silent soar that carried more weight than armies. His new presence announced itself before he had even spoken or moved further: a figure that seemed both alive and impossibly other.
The Netherborn void armor he now bore was unlike any form it had taken before. Where once it flowed like liquid metal, now it had grown into an intricate lattice of shadow and obsidian, shaped into the silhouette of a warrior who might have emerged from the deepest nightmares of mortal imagination, yet radiated a certain gravitas that forbade outright fear.
The chest plate curved like darkened bone, etched with overlapping runes that glimmered faintly in violet and indigo, a living map of his accumulated knowledge and power. Each rune pulsated like a heartbeat, sending waves of subtle energy across the armor's surface. The pauldrons rose in sweeping arcs, jagged yet elegant, resembling fractured wings frozen in mid-flap, black metal fused with strands of silver-light filigree that hinted at movement even when still. The gauntlets were segmented, the fingers tapering into fine, claw-like tips that could shift between lethal precision and almost delicate dexterity, perfect for both combat and subtle manipulation of his environment.
The helmet was perhaps the most unnerving: a smooth, featureless mask of darkened chrome, except for the eyes, where the void shimmered like molten amethyst. The irises glowed with a depth that suggested eternity, reflecting not just light but will and intent. From behind, a faint trail of liquid-shadow mist trailed along his spine, drifting like smoke in slow currents, vanishing into nothingness only to reform as he moved. The armor shifted between states seamlessly, solid, liquid, even vaporous in moments of high focus, allowing him to strike with the unpredictability of wind, the persistence of water, and the sharp inevitability of stone.
Daniel paused on the ridge overlooking the eastern plains. The swamp below, the scattered villages, and the distant forests were all visible, yet he saw more than the terrain. His eyes traced the potential movement of enemy forces, the likely lines of Draugr advance, the weak points in natural barriers, and the emotional tenor of those who would oppose him, fear, courage, and the stubborn will to survive. In that moment, he embodied the duality he had always sought: a warrior who could inspire awe and fear, a protector who could carry destruction, a Netherborn figure who was unmistakably human in the intentions he carried, yet terrifyingly other in execution.
A cold wind rose across the plain, carrying with it the distant, almost imperceptible echoes of mourning villages and the hum of awakening runes. Daniel inhaled deeply. He did not need to shout or draw weapons; the armor, the energy within, the pulse of Chaos merged with Void, spoke for him. It announced his arrival in a language older than Valdyrheim itself: power, will, and irrevocable purpose.
He stepped forward again, the shadows of his armor stretching with him, melding with the land, and for the first time, truly confronting the weight of the Second Floor's command, not as a player following a game, but as a man shaping a realm. And in the east, as Astrid prepared her warriors for the siege she knew was coming, the Netherborn had already arrived, unseen but inevitable, the first ripple of the storm that would wash across the lands and test every oath, every blade, every belief.
Daniel stood atop the ridge, the eastern plains stretching endlessly before him, the low mists curling around the swamps and lakes like restless spirits. He let his gaze wander across the land, but it was not the terrain he measured, his mind weighed his own power, the limits that might yet bind him, and the potential of this new vessel he wore.
The Netherborn void armor flowed over his body like a second skin, yet unlike before, it did more than protect or conceal; it spoke, silently and deliberately, a message to all who might witness it. Not a message of evil, nor of unrestrained malice, it was the language of authority, control, and unyielding resolve.
He flexed his fingers, testing the gauntlets' responsiveness. Each movement was mirrored by the armor without delay, the joints flowing like liquid metal and yet holding the firmness of obsidian steel. He could feel the connection, the symbiosis between thought, intent, and form. Here, in this body, the chaos engine and void harmonics responded to him not as separate powers, but as an extension of his will—dynamic, versatile, obedient. And yet, there were constraints imposed by the Tower, the world itself, subtle threads woven into his being to prevent a total unbinding that might collapse reality.
"Can I push beyond this?" he asked himself, voice barely a whisper over the wind. The question was not idle. Long-range attacks—spells of devastation, rune bursts, or chaos projections—might reveal the ceiling of his power too early, or worse, destabilize the armor's delicate balance. Instead, he would test his limits physically first, seeing if the combination of void armor and his own martial skill could surpass what he had achieved before. He needed movement, precision, instinct; he needed to know whether the armor enhanced the human element or simply replaced it.
He began with a series of leaps and spins, striking at invisible targets, landing without sound on the rough terrain of rock and mud. The armor shifted seamlessly: from dense, protective plates where impact demanded, to fluid, almost feather-light forms where speed and agility were required. Each motion left a faint trail of black mist, a ghostly echo of movement that vanished before it could be fully traced. He landed again, crouching, sensing every micro-motion of his body amplified by the armor. It was perfect, not perfect in the sense of invulnerability, but perfect in the sense of precision, adaptability, and the subtle authority it carried.
He paused, hands on his knees, and examined himself. The armor's appearance, unlike the old, more chaotic form, was not a scream of terror—it was a statement. It told the world: this is power, this is focus, this is resolve. There was fear to be felt in the aura it projected, certainly, but it was not fear born of cruelty. It was fear born of inevitability. Observers would see a figure that commanded attention, that inspired caution and respect. It projected authority without need for violence, yet promised that violence, if drawn, would be precise, unstoppable, and deliberate.
A wind whipped across the ridge, tugging at the edges of the armor, and Daniel let it flow, testing the weight of the shadows that clung to him. He could feel every connection to the air, the ground, the faint vibrations of life in the swamp below. The armor responded in real time, subtly adjusting balance and posture, guiding, enhancing, not controlling. He smiled faintly. Yes—this form was far more than a tool. It was a partner, a reflection of intent, and a canvas for the will he intended to carve across Valdyrheim.
He rose to his full height, letting the mist curl around him and the faint violet pulse of runes shimmer against the black lattice of his armor. "Time to see just how far I can go," he murmured. Not with raw destruction, not yet, but with measured, precise motion, testing the very limits of flesh, spirit, and the new armor that had become an extension of both.
And as he moved forward, shadow and metal flowing together, he understood one truth: the new form did not just intimidate, it commanded, it inspired, it made the world pause long enough for him to measure its reaction, and in that pause, the first step toward reshaping the east began.
From the high ridge where Daniel paused, the eastern lands stretched wide beneath him, a tapestry of shifting terrain and life that demanded both respect and calculation. The plains here were vast, rolling expanses of green and gold, dotted with wetlands and shallow marshes whose waters glimmered silver in the sun. Small rivers twisted and braided across the land, feeding into larger lakes that reflected the sky like polished glass, and one of these. Lake Sioa still bore the scars of Mira's first wave,
a silent reminder of the devastation that had already passed through the region. Beyond the lakes, the marshes thickened, reed and cattail stalks rising taller than a man, their roots hidden in black, viscous mud that could swallow an unwary traveler in moments. Mist lingered constantly here, a natural fog that curled around every hillock and willow, giving the landscape an ethereal, almost spectral quality.
The eastern mountains formed a jagged spine along the horizon, lower and narrower than the central Skjorn Peaks, roughly 400–500 meters high, their summits jagged and rocky, with snow clinging only to the highest ridges. Unlike the massive 800-meter-high and 540-meter-wide Skjorn Peaks that dominated the central region, these eastern ranges felt less like impenetrable walls and more like a series of natural fortifications: uneven passes, narrow ridges, and hidden valleys ideal for ambushes.
Between the mountains and the plains, dense forests clung to the slopes, pines and birches mixing with the occasional twisted oak, creating shadows under which wolves, lynxes, and deer roamed cautiously. Raptors circled above, crows and ravens squabbling over carrion, while smaller animals, hares, badgers, and swamp-dwelling otters—moved silently through undergrowth and marsh alike.
The eastern settlements were fewer and farther between than the clustered villages around the fjord. In total, Daniel counted roughly a dozen towns, most no larger than a few hundred souls, with the notable exceptions of Sioa and two other lakeside strongholds that served as hubs of trade and defense. Each town was surrounded by wooden palisades or earthen walls, often positioned on slightly elevated ground to guard against the persistent floods of spring and the creeping grasp of swampy terrain.
Roads between settlements were narrow, winding, and often little more than cleared paths through reeds and forest; travel was slow, perilous, and demanded local knowledge or skilled scouts. Compared to the central Skjorn Peaks region, with its densely populated fjord cities and sprawling training grounds, the east felt wild, untamed, and far more dependent on nature than constructed fortifications.
Daniel's keen gaze swept the marshes and forests below, noting patterns invisible to ordinary eyes: the faint ripple of water where Draugr might move, the unnatural stillness among reeds that could signal an ambush, and the broken branches or disturbed soil that marked animal or undead, activity. Here, the environment itself was as much a weapon as any sword. Heavy fog would mask movement, soft mud would slow pursuers, and the natural waterways could channel or hinder armies. It was a land that favored patience, cunning, and adaptability, qualities Daniel had honed over months of careful observation, training, and reflection.
From this vantage, he estimated the eastern territory to cover roughly three to four times the area of the central Skjorn Peaks region, though far less densely populated. Mountains and marshes carved the land into natural districts, each capable of supporting independent settlements but difficult to unite under a single banner, an advantage for anyone who could master both strategy and persuasion. To move an army here was not merely a matter of numbers; it was a test of intelligence, patience, and the ability to read the land itself.
Daniel inhaled deeply, letting the faint smell of wet earth and pine fill his senses. Every detail—the shimmer of water, the shadowed hollows beneath trees, the faint cries of distant animals—was now data, insight, and opportunity. The eastern plains and swamps were a labyrinth, a battlefield that could punish the reckless and reward the meticulous. And Daniel, with his Netherborn void armor and awakened senses, would bend this land to his will.
He adjusted the shifting contours of his armor, its liquid-metal lattice flowing silently, reflecting the marshy light in dark waves. The swamp below seemed to pulse almost in rhythm with him, as if recognizing a predator born of both human cunning and otherworldly force. Ahead, the faint lights of Sioa flickered like dying stars, or perhaps the first sparks of resistance. Either way, the real confrontation, the shaping of destiny, had finally begun.
The morning fog clung to the eastern lowlands like a living entity, a thick pall that blurred the boundary between earth and sky. Five miles from the gates of Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend's capital, the scouts advanced cautiously along the narrow causeway that led to the lake connecting the swamplands. Each step sank into the mud with a wet squelch, reeds brushing their thighs with insistence, and water lapping at their boots.
Beyond the lake, the marsh fanned out into a labyrinth of black water channels and clusters of dead, skeletal trees, their roots clawing like the hands of the drowned. This was a place where ordinary men vanished in an instant—and where the undead moved as effortlessly as shadows on water.
The five scouts, led by Erik Tormund, a veteran tracker of the northern wilds, had been dispatched to probe the area around Siora, seeking to intercept any Draugr before they reached the scattered towns dotting the eastern plains. Each carried a rune gun, a rare and mysterious weapon forged by the East Lazarus Guild, its barrel etched with glowing sigils that pulsed faintly with Seiðr energy. When fired,
the weapons discharged ethereal bolts of pure rune light, each projectile capable of tearing through flesh and bone with unearthly force. But the guns came at a cost. Every shot consumed the wielder's Seiðr energy, the lifeblood of magical resonance, and most Skald-born in the eastern realms had never been trained to cultivate it beyond a basic threshold. At their level—roughly fifteen points, they could barely sustain a few shots before exhaustion set in. Each rune bullet consumed three points, and even one miss left the shooter dangerously drained.
Then, across the lake's mirrored surface, Erik spotted it: a subtle ripple, barely perceptible, like a stone dropped in a still pool. He froze, raising a hand to halt his companions. The fog ahead seemed to shift of its own volition, curling and spiraling unnaturally. A wet, gurgling shuffle came from the reeds at the water's edge, resonating like a chorus of drowned souls.
The Draugr emerged from the marsh. Their forms were skeletal, sinew glistening with swamp water, faces locked in silent screams. Moss and reeds clung to them, making them appear as part of the land itself, until they moved. Then their speed betrayed them, unnatural, preternatural, guided by a mind beyond comprehension.
Erik and his scouts raised their rune guns and fired. Beams of white-blue light arced through the fog, cutting through mist and reeking with supernatural potency. Each bolt struck true, cracking bones and searing flesh with a burst of spiritual resonance. One Draugr shattered into black mist, its ichor evaporating into the reeds. But the cost was immediate. Seiðr energy flared from their veins with a burning ache. The youngest scout staggered, clutching his chest, sweat mingling with mud, the faint hum of the rune gun fading as his power nearly drained.
The Draugr advanced, undeterred. One lunged from the reeds with a clawed hand, snatching another scout from the mire before he could fire again. Even as Erik loosed another rune shot, he felt the familiar pang of exhaustion, his Seiðr reserves dangerously low, yet he could not cease. The swamp and fog worked with the reported Undead Völva's will, every shadow bending toward her command, every ripple of water anticipating their movements.
The fight became a blur of ethereal light and grotesque shapes. The rune guns were devastating, yes, but limited. Each shot demanded discipline and sacrifice, leaving the Scald-born increasingly vulnerable as their spiritual reservoirs dwindled. One by one, the marsh claimed its victims, and only two scouts remained standing, trembling, breaths shallow, weapons humming with the last of their energy.
The Draugr withdrew as silently as they had struck, melting back into the fog-drenched swamp. The lake's surface stilled, and the reeds whispered over the carnage. Erik looked to the horizon, voice hoarse:
"They… they weren't just mindless. They… they anticipated every move. It's… it's her. Mira."
The youngest scout, pale and shaking, pointed toward the distant town of Siora. "She's… she's moving there. Astrid… she needs to know."
Erik nodded. "Then we ride. Every second counts. The swamp itself bends to her will… and if the Draugr reach our main stronghold…" His words faded into the fog, swallowed by the swamp's eerie murmur. The first domino had fallen, and the eastern lands now trembled under the silent, calculating fury of Mira, and the few remaining warriors who still dared to resist.
By mid-morning, the scouts arrived back at the gates of Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend's capital, their faces pale, uniforms torn and slick with mud and swamp water. They stumbled into the council hall, and Erik Tormund, his voice tight with urgency, gave the report in measured, tense words: "Mira's Draugr… they struck at the lake near Siora. Entirely coordinated. Too fast, too precise… We barely survived. She's moving to Siora, my lady."
Astrid's eyes narrowed, scanning the map of the eastern plains spread before her. Her long fingers traced the faint carvings of rivers, lakes, and mountain ridges, settling finally on the second largest lake in the region, Mälaren. At sixty acres in size, its dark waters branched into dozens of minor veins feeding smaller ponds and marshes, all of which connected to the vast swamplands that had already claimed Siora. The terrain was perilous—swamps, marshes, and tangled reeds,but strategically, it offered a choke point.
She turned to her lieutenants, her voice steady but fierce: "We hold at the edge of Mälaren. The open lands where the lumbermen cleared the forests, the twenty-acre deforested stretch—is our first line. From here, we can see any force that approaches." She paused, letting her gaze sweep across the maps. "The forests beyond are too dense. They hide too much. Night hunters, beasts of the dark… and now her Draugr. I will not let them strike from the shadows."
Astrid's mind calculated quickly. The cleared lumberland had been harvested decades ago, leaving a natural corridor wide enough for movement and formation. The surrounding terrain—dense woods, uneven marsh edges, and tributary veins feeding Mälaren, would serve as both a barrier and a trap for Mira's army if they were forced to advance. Every tree cut, every path widened, every rise in the ground was an advantage she intended to exploit. The eastern forests were full of unknown predators, twisted animals that thrived in nightfall; yet in the open stretch, her warriors could maneuver without fear of ambush.
She considered the broader geography. To the far east, near the coast, the Blea Tarn ridge rose sharply, its peaks dark and jagged above the sprawling Skardal Flats, where the largest city in her domain sat nestled by a deep lake. From there, her allied towns, smaller clans, and skald-born communities could be reinforced in time, provided she held the chokepoint at Mälaren. Failure there, and the swamp would funnel Mira's Draugr into unprotected settlements, leaving the scattered towns vulnerable.
Astrid's hand rested on the carved hilt of her sword, her jaw firm. "Prepare the defenses. Rune traps along the water's edge, spear lines at the shallow banks. The scouts will report every movement—every ripple, every shimmer of unnatural mist. We will not give them the advantage of surprise again." She turned to the captains of the four allied clans in attendance, her eyes piercing each of them in turn. "Call the warriors who still honor the code. Every able hand. Every bow, every blade counts. The Draugr may be relentless, but they have never faced us prepared. Not like this."
Her mind, however, did not linger on confidence alone. She knew the Draugr were more than mindless killers; they moved with purpose, guided by Mira's will. And the swamp would always favor the undead. But Mälaren, the open stretch of harvested land, was their chance. Here, the humans could strike, could see, and could fight on their terms.
Outside the hall, the wind swept across the plains, rustling the remaining reeds along the lake's edge. Astrid imagined the Draugr advancing through the fog, black forms rising from the marshes like waves of shadow. Her jaw tightened, and she allowed herself no hesitation. Orders were given, traps laid, warriors drilled. The eastern plains had become a chessboard, and she was determined to control the first moves.
As the first light of day broke fully over the flatlands, casting silver upon the dark waters of Mälaren, Astrid lifted her gaze eastward, toward the marshes and the distant, veiled shape of Siora. Somewhere beyond the fog, Mira's presence waited, calculating, patient, and deadly.
And in that quiet, measured anticipation, the eastern lands braced themselves for the clash that would decide the fate of Skardal Flats, Mälaren, and every village caught between the swamp and the sword.
By late morning, Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend's forces had begun their steady march toward the open clearing along the edge of Mälaren, the lake's dark waters reflecting the pale light filtering through the lingering fog. The terrain was deceptively simple at first glance, a twenty-acre deforested stretch cut decades earlier by lumbermen, its earth compacted but slightly sunken, forming a natural amphitheater that sloped gently toward the lake. The soil was soft from the swamp-fed tributaries that seeped through hidden channels, making the lowland foundation ideal for funneling any attackers into predesignated kill zones. Beyond the clearing, the dense eastern forests loomed like silent sentinels, a tangle of towering oaks, pines, and thorny underbrush where unknown predators lurked, watching and waiting, their eyes reflecting the cautious glint of warriors on edge.
Astrid's army moved with disciplined precision, the Red Bloodwolves and her elite skald-born units forming the vanguard while the four allied minor clans fell into supporting lines along the periphery. Each commander took position according to her strict calculations: archers along the slightly raised edges to rain bolts down, rune gunners supplied by the East Lazarus guild spaced strategically to cover choke points, and spear lines arrayed along the shallower marshy inclines leading to the lake. The natural channels and ditches, usually an obstacle for ordinary troops, were now integrated into the plan, forcing any enemy to navigate with difficulty and exposing them to crossfire.
Among the allied forces, a new pair of representatives arrived, heralding fresh strength and expertise. Farrah and Cody Lazarus, bearing the insignia of their guild, had joined the ranks with a contingent of skilled warriors trained in both conventional arms and Seiðr-powered runic warfare. Farrah, tall and unflinching, surveyed the marshy approaches with sharp, calculating eyes, already issuing orders for rune gun positions along the marsh veins. Cody, ever practical, coordinated the deployment of mobile barricades and prepared fallback points near the edges of the clearing, ensuring that no flank could be exploited by the enemy. Their presence, though small in numbers, brought renewed confidence to Astrid's ranks: the Lazarus guild's experience with dark terrains and supernatural foes would be invaluable against the Draugr.
Astrid herself walked the line, observing the formations with measured calm. Her long cloak fluttered slightly in the morning breeze, her armor catching dim reflections from the lake's surface. She gestured to the captains, her voice carrying authority over the rising tension. "We hold the lowlands. Let them come. The marshes and channels will slow them, and our lines are tight. Archers, cover the edges. Rune gunners, aim for the channels—they cannot outrun your precision. Spears, guard the fronts, and remember: any Draugr taken alive or dead, we need intelligence. They are more than mere undead; Mira's will drives them. Move carefully, strike deliberately."
The clearing itself seemed almost alive in anticipation. Pools of standing water glittered faintly, reflecting the sky and the trembling reeds around the lake's edge. Hidden roots twisted beneath the surface, forming natural traps, while the soft soil allowed for the sinking of boots and hooves, creating the perfect terrain to funnel attackers into kill zones designed by Astrid's careful strategy. Around the edges, remnants of cut lumber formed crude barriers and vantage points, integrated now as firing platforms and observation posts. The marshy veins feeding Mälaren glistened with algae and dark water, snaking through the lowland like natural moats, ready to ensnare any force that underestimated the landscape.
The lesser clans, their representatives standing proudly among Astrid's seasoned soldiers, murmured quietly to each other, their eyes scanning the misty treeline for signs of movement. Though numbers alone were modest, the cohesion of their combined forces amplified their strength. Farrah and Cody Lazarus moved among them, offering guidance, sharing techniques in rune gun coordination, and ensuring the lines maintained perfect alignment. Their presence suggested a new era of cooperation, one forged out of necessity and the understanding that Mira's Draugr would not show mercy.
As the forces settled into position, the air itself seemed to shift. Mist swirled over the marsh, water lapping faintly at the edges of the cleared land, carrying with it the faintest whispers of the undead stirring beyond. Every warrior paused, sensing the unnatural quiet, the calm before the storm. Astrid raised her hand, signaling the final preparations. Archers nocked arrows, rune gunners traced the faint glow of glyphs across their weapons, and spear tips were leveled toward the marsh, poised for the inevitable clash.
For the first time, the eastern lowlands felt the full weight of the impending battle. Mälaren was no longer just a lake, a clearing, or a stretch of harvested forest, it was a stage, perfectly aligned for the opening act of war between the living and the undead. And standing at its center, commanding the combined forces of skald-born warriors, allied clans, and Lazarus guild operatives, Astrid Skyrend prepared to meet Mira's wrath head-on, confident that the land itself, shaped by her foresight, would fight alongside them.
By late afternoon, Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend's combined forces had reached the predesignated battleground along the edge of Mälaren. The twenty-acre clearing, already marked by the sunken lowlands and meandering marsh veins, was transformed into a temporary war settlement. Tents rose in neat rows along the edges of the clearing, their canvas flapping lightly in the swamp-fed breeze, creating a sense of order against the unnatural wilds beyond. Firing platforms had been constructed using the remains of felled timber, and makeshift palisades reinforced the lines where the skald-born infantry and allied minor clans would hold the front.
A small command pavilion, adorned with Astrid's banner of silver and azure, stood near the center of the encampment, where the Jarl herself oversaw the positioning of her 500-strong combined army. Among them, Farrah and Cody Lazarus moved with calm authority, guiding twenty of their most capable guild members, all veterans from the Empire of Graves campaign, their Seiðr proficiency evident in the subtle glow of energy tracing across their rune weapons.
Above the camp, nearly three hundred meters in the sky, Daniel hovered silently, his void armor merging seamlessly with the darkened clouds, a living shadow against the faintly pulsing sun. He engaged about twenty percent of his Omni-Resonance skill, a level sufficient to scan the battlefield in meticulous detail.
Through it, he could see the ebb and flow of energy within every warrior below him: the faint, flickering pulses of Seiðr that marked their strength, their potential, their limitations. Out of the five hundred, only twenty-two registered a higher energy signature. These were the Lazarus guild members, their mana concentrated, refined, and enhanced beyond ordinary limits. Cody and Farrah themselves radiated a steady, formidable aura, their personal reserves leveled to 2000 points, twenty times the capacity of the average skald-born warrior.
By contrast, the bulk of the skald-born, though formidable in body and spirit, were capped at roughly 100 Seiðr points. Their skill lay in raw melee prowess, their physical strength and reflexes honed to perfection, often reaching levels of three thousand in pure combat capacity. Yet, here, against the Draugr, creatures fueled by dark energy, resilient and unnatural, mere physical attacks would only graze their forms. Every swing of a sword, every thrust of a spear, needed the enhancement of Seiðr-infused rune magic to pierce the unholy flesh and disrupt the dark energy binding the Draugr to Mira's will.
It was a strange duality, a balance of mortal power and arcane necessity. To wield these rune-engraved weapons, the warriors needed to pour Seiðr through each symbol etched into the steel, imbuing it with a supernatural fire, a force that could burn, rend, and unravel what mere metal could not. It was not easy. Each rune consumed three Seiðr points, a steep price for the skald-born who had little reserve. One misspent symbol could leave a warrior vulnerable, drained of the subtle energies that kept them alive against the unnatural foe. To an outsider, it might appear like lighting a sword with invisible flames, yet for the warrior, it was more than technique—it was a conduit of life force, a gamble of survival and power.
Daniel observed the differences with detached calculation, noting how the skald-born's extraordinary reflexes and unyielding courage would complement the raw magical might of the Lazarus guild. He understood the stark truth: the Draugr would not falter before steel alone. Physical might could delay them, yes, but it would not defeat them.
Only the combination of carefully directed Seiðr, precise rune application, and strategic coordination with terrain could tip the scales. The marsh veins, the sunken soil, and the open lowlands became more than geography, they were instruments, extensions of Astrid's strategy, ready to channel the enemy into zones where the runes could strike true, where the combination of mortal courage and magical force could cleave the undead tide.
Below, Astrid moved among her lines, her eyes sharp, measuring the distance to the lake's edge and the marsh-fed veins beyond. She spoke softly to the captains, her words deliberate: "Remember, the Draugr respond to thought, not just force. Use the channels. Let their will guide them into our fire. Those with Seiðr, conserve it, every rune matters. The rest hold steady. Steel alone will not save us, but unity might."
The contrast was clear. On one side, the Draugr, relentless and fueled by Mira's dark command, moved with preternatural precision, immune to the ordinary laws of war. On the other, the skald-born and their allied guild members relied on the raw strength of body and the delicate art of Seiðr infusion. The battlefield was no longer a simple contest of might; it was a symphony of energy and strategy, a test of control over self and over the unnatural world that Mira had unleashed.
And from above, Daniel watched, measuring, calculating, preparing to intervene where the balance would tip too far in the Draugr's favor. His presence alone—though hidden—was already shaping the battlefield, his perception stretching into the fog, the marsh, and the minds of those who would soon stand or fall beneath it. The first clash would not be simply brute force. It would be the opening act of a deadly dance, where knowledge, energy, and willpower mattered as much as the sword in hand.
Despite the disciplined arrangement of tents and palisades around the Mälaren clearing, a dangerous complacency simmered beneath the surface. As the hours passed and the final preparations took shape, the combined forces of the East began to reveal their true colors—not in unity, but in arrogance. Many among the lesser clans strutted across the camp with swaggering pride, boasting loudly about past victories, laughing at the idea that undead creatures posed any real threat.
"Draugr?" one of the five lesser clan sons scoffed as he sharpened his axe in broad, lazy strokes. "Reanimated corpses pulled up by some swamp witch's tricks. A single clean swing is all that's needed."
Another chimed in, spitting into the dirt. "Aye. Dead things don't think. They don't bleed. They don't feel fear. We've killed far worse."
Their voices carried, and many of Astrid Skyrend's own warriors, over two hundred seasoned fighters—echoed the sentiment with stubborn certainty. While they held deep respect for their Jarl, they were still skald-born to the bone: proud, battle-hardened, and raised on sagas where glory belonged to the fearless. Their instincts told them that anything which bled could be beaten, and anything that didn't bleed should fear fire and steel. The scouts' warning, those shadowed, trembling reports of Draugr that moved with unnatural precision and sent experienced hunters scrambling, was dismissed as exaggeration born of fear or exhaustion.
To them, it was a simple truth: witchcraft was coward's magic, an insult to the strength of the living. And so the tale of losing three scouts in mere moments was rationalized away. "Swamp illusions," they muttered. "Strange mist tricks. Nothing we haven't handled before."
But on the far side of the encampment, a silent contrast sharpened like a blade.
The Lazarus guild moved with purpose, quiet, controlled, efficient. Cody and Farrah wasted no time. Their twenty guild members had already formed a semicircle near the back line, meticulously carving reinforcement runes into their weapons, calibrating Seiðr flow, checking talismans, and preparing layered defensive rituals they had perfected in the Empire of Graves campaign. These warriors worked like surgeons, each motion precise, each preparation deliberate.
They did not boast.They did not swagger.They had seen what true undead were capable of.
To the Lazarus guild, these Draugr were not "mere reanimated corpses" but entities on par with Death Knights and Death Cavaliers, creatures that moved like storms, struck without hesitation, and retained every skill they had mastered in life. They knew the terrifying truth:
A Draugr does not tire.A Draugr does not break formation.A Draugr does not hesitate.And a Draugr does not die clean.
Farrah inspected the final rune circle she had created, her fingers glowing with a controlled stream of Seiðr. "They won't listen," she murmured to Cody. "Not until the first wave hits them. And by then…"
Cody tightened his gauntlet, his expression cold with experience. "By then, half of them will already be dead."
They did not say this with cruelty, only certainty. They had seen too many forces fall because of arrogance, and they recognized the same fatal flaw spreading through the skald-born lines like rot.
Meanwhile, across the field, the lesser clan sons continued to brag, ignoring even Astrid's attempts to temper their pride. Their men followed suit, swinging their blades in practice arcs, laughing over mugs of lake water, betting over who would kill the most undead before nightfall. The idea of fear was an insult to them.
The Battlefield's Two MindsThe difference in mentality was stark enough that Daniel, still floating high above, noticed it immediately.
Below him, he saw two distinct armies, though they shared the same ground:
One powered by pride, convinced strength alone would crush the undead tide.The other powered by discipline, preparing for a war they knew was far darker than any song or saga could describe.
The skald-born and lesser clans embodied reckless confidence—warriors shaped by tradition, hardened by cold lands and beast hunts, trained to meet every threat head-on. Their courage was admirable, but it was blind courage, untampered by experience against supernatural intelligence.
The Lazarus guild, by contrast, held a mindset sharpened by battles fought across worlds and realms. They prepared not for monsters that roared, but for monsters that calculated. Their movements reflected foresight rather than bravado, their silence heavier than the skald-born's laughter.
And when the first Draugr patrol finally appeared at the edge of the swamp—as silent as a breath caught in a throat, the difference in these mindsets would determine who lived long enough to learn the truth.
Because the undead were already watching them.Waiting.Adjusting.Learning.
And the marshland mist began to thicken.