Chapter 223 - Foolishness' and Desire, Updated

Chapter 223

The great hall had fallen into a suffocating quiet, as if silence itself clenched the room by the throat. Even the wind outside refused to intrude. At the center of that unmoving world stood Daniel, doing nothing, yet crushing everything. His stillness weighed heavier than iron dragged to the bottom of the sea. He looked like a storm condensed into a single armored figure, lightning curled beneath sinew, thunder shackled under metal, and with one wrong breath the sky itself would kill.

No warrior among the Tengri-Born dared move; they became statues shaken only by sweat. Only Khödan Altan met Daniel's gaze without lowering his eyes, though the shadow that stretched behind the Netherborn crept across the floor like dark coagulating blood.

Khödan should have looked away. He should have bowed, begged, or remained silent. Instead, his gaze drifted past Daniel's armor, past the trembling torches, past danger itself, toward Melgil. His heart hammered like hooves across the open steppe; fear whispered to kneel, pride to speak, and lust to claim. He chose the most catastrophic instinct.

He stepped forward, a mere inch, but the sound cracked through the hall like a blade scraping bone. Daniel's head turned toward him, slow and grinding like an ancient glacier devouring stone. Eyes within the visor glowed molten yellow, the burning color of dying stars. Khödan swallowed and forced his voice out like rust scraping off iron. "I… am Khödan Altan, Golden Bull of the Steppe. I do not bend, before beauty." With trembling bravado, he added, "The woman, Melgil, I will take "

He never finished.

Reality crushed him first. The air itself turned against him and pressed his knees to the stone floor. His spine buckled, his forehead nearly smashed the runes beneath his feet. Around him, his warriors collapsed under the same impossible gravity. Daniel had not struck, threatened, or moved, he merely reminded them where they belonged.

Khödan strained, muscles bursting with trembling fury. "You, cannot, own… what I desire!" he choked out. Daniel's fist tightened with a gentle metallic echo, and every warrior hit the floor harder, pinned like animals under an invisible slaughterer's hand. Flames bent toward Daniel, shadows fled from him, and his voice rumbled through bone and stone alike: "You desire what you do not comprehend."

Only Melgil could break that storm. She moved with no urgency, simply placed her hand against Daniel's armored forearm, and the darkness recoiled as if burned. "Beloved," she commanded softly, "they are guests. Allow them what dignity remains." The pressure eased, though it did not vanish, for Daniel's restraint was not peace, it was simply obedience. Khödan dragged breath into his lungs, gazing at Melgil as though she had chosen him, as though she had saved him.

"You… defend me," he whispered with feverish awe. Her answer sliced through him colder than any blade: "No. I defend this hall reputation from your stupidity."

But Khödan was only a few feet away now, and in that pitiful stretch of space, his mind seemed to tear loose from reason.He extended his hand toward Melgil's arm—slowly, stubbornly, with the casual entitlement of a man who still believed the world functioned by his rules.To him, it was nothing more than claiming what he thought he had earned: a gesture of comfort, of possession, of familiarity.But to the clans of the North, whose honor laws ran deeper than bedrock, this was far more than a misstep.

It was a violation. Touching another warrior's partner without permission was not seen as affection here, it was an attack on the man to whom she was sworn. Worse, it was a silent declaration of challenge. To the Ten Clans, such an act wasn't flirtation or foolishness,it was harassment, provocation, and an insult to the bond of oath-mates.

Yet Khödan pressed forward, as though the mountain winds were whispering lies into his skull.He ignored Melgil's stiffened shoulders, the tightening of her jaw, the warning glare in her storm-grey eyes.

Maybe he was intoxicated by his own pride. because he could always get any women, he desired back in the west, Maybe shame made him reckless, Or maybe he was simply too stubborn to accept the truth that the moment he crossed the border of the West, he stepped into a world where his father's name could not shield his arrogance.

His fingertips hovered mere inches from her fair skin . As Melgil was focus in calming her partner from going some irreversible

That was all it took. The oath-bound warriors of the this realm were trained to read danger before it touched them.Melgil didn't need to speak, The bonds of clan and honor spoke louder than any cry.

Eirunn Stormbreaker moved before anyone registered the blur of steel.

In the North, you do not need to be warned, you do not need to be threatened.You only need to act on your malicious intent .A heartbeat later, Eirunn Stormbreaker acted. She read beyond insult, beyond humiliation, beyond diplomacy, she saw extinction in Daniel's reaction. She moved without warning, without ceremony, without hesitation.

Her blade hissed once and severed Khödan's hand at the wrist. Blood fanned in a crimson bloom across Melgil's cheek, almost artistic, and the hand that had dared to claim her slapped wetly onto the stone beside the drinking bowls. Khödan screamed not like a bull, but like a beast whose throat had been opened.

His blood seeped into the runes carved beneath the floor. The hall drank, the bones below glowed, and the building itself seemed to feed. Daniel watched without blinking. His shadow rose like claws against the roof beams. His voice tolled like a burial bell: "Touch what is mine, and the West becomes history's forgotten stain." Only Melgil's touch chained him again. Not command but with affection.

Khödan did not die because death itself recoiled from a man so angry he shook the wind when he breathed. They carried him back through the desert passes like a broken idol, wrapped in felt, still clutching the stump where his hand should have been, muttering Eirunn Stormbreaker name and the being named Netherborn with fevered hatred. For three nights he lay unconscious beneath the black pines of Shangdu, where the Tengri-Born clans had raised their monasteries not with stone but prayer, rope, and disciplined breath. Shamans swarmed like vultures, whispering to the spirits of dust and thunder, and soon the Fulu sigils began to crawl across his chest and throat: swirling marks made from horse ash, steppes-grain ink, and the coagulated blood of his own lineage.

These sigils did not sit dead like foreign runes; they fluttered, their strokes quivering as though breathing. Some faded instantly, sacrificed to the wind before his eyes, while others cracked with ember-light, burning just long enough to sting the pain out of his bones. They spoke to the horizon, to the restless storms, to the wild grass that bent in unnatural silence, and the plains listened. A hot gale swept through the monastery walls, lanterns flickered, chanting grew frantic, horses screamed in their stables. Children peered out from behind silk banners, counting the missing fingers of the man who once boasted he could bend destiny with a clenched fist.

As Khödan awoke, pale as moon-wax but eyes blazing with returned authority, the clans gathered in the courtyard. Banners that once rose with his victories now hung beneath all others, sagging like defeated wings. Old warriors whispered that this was worse than exile, exile sent a man away, but shame forced him to live among those who remembered his fall.

The courtyard of Shangdu grew so quiet it felt like grave soil. No drums. No prayers. Only the heavy sound of spirits watching. From the mountain shadows, the Ten Western Clans stood stiff, waiting to see whether their wounded chieftain would crawl deeper into disgrace, or rise like an omen carried on furious wind. And somewhere beyond the monastery gates, the sky rumbled, not kindly, but as if promising vengeance to the next name Khödan dared to curse.

The clan hall pulsed with restless firelight as the news of Khödan's shame spread like smoke through dry grass. The Ten Clans, pillars of the Western Frontier, reacted as though fate itself had struck the Golden Bull line.

The Iron Crane Dynasty, masters of tactics and steely discipline, folded their arms and quietly judged him unworthy of command. To them, a leader who could not control his impulses could not control an army.

The Red Phoenix Brotherhood clicked their tongues, amused by the scandal, whispering that this humiliation might forge a sharper warrior, or burn him further.

The Storm Tiger Tribes, thunder-hearted and hot-blooded, grinned with cruel delight, thinking only of how the wound would temper his rage when the time came for war.

The Moon-Lotus Keepers, dignified and spiritual, turned their gaze away, believing the boy must now walk through shadow to rediscover his spirit.T

he Sand Kirin Nomads muttered to one another that the North had not merely punished a hand, but cut away arrogance.The Silent Viper Sect, experts in subtle warfare, whispered that blood-spilled destiny might drive him into their arms, should the Golden Bulls abandon him.

The Jade Ox Farmers' League, the backbone of the western food trade, frowned, not in anger, but in practical worry; a maimed heir meant instability, and instability meant war

.The The Azure Arrows, keepers of knowledge and culture, already began composing cautionary verses about pride and shattered lineage.T

he Stone Lantern Brotherhood, stoic defenders of tradition, bowed their heads, not in pity, but in acceptance that destiny had chosen its path without mercy.And

the Thunder Eagle Riders, scourge of open plains, were already whispering of new champions, eager to follow whichever warrior proved worthy of their saddles.

Through it all, the Golden Bull Clan stood silent, its banner heavy with expectation. Their line had ruled the West for six generations: a family known for strength, blunt honesty, and a warrior's stubborn spirit. Altan 's father, Hordai the Broad-Back, was a diplomat whose soft voice could move armies, while his mother, Lady Bayarmaa, fought in tournaments even in her middle age and still broke men's ribs with a smiling apology.

Altan Khödan elder siblings were legends in their own right: Khoshar, the firstborn, undefeated wrestler and heir-in-training; Miraal, the shield-maiden who commanded two hundred lancers by the age of twenty-one; and Otgul, the gentle strategist who never raised his voice but commanded respect across the frontier.

Then there was Altan Khödan youngest, fiercest, and most reckless of them all. Born under the season of bulls, destined to lead, he was always praised for potential rather than discipline. And now, with one impulsive touch and the slice of another clan's blade, he returned home without his right hand, carrying humiliation like a severed banner.

A Golden Bull missing a hand could still lead; a Golden Bull stained by his own arrogance, however, was a danger to all.

So the Ten Clans spoke with a single will: Earn back honor through conquest, or step aside forever.

And for the first time in his life, Khödan's destiny was not protected by lineage or strength. It had become a debt and blood would be the only acceptable currency.

Pain welcomed Altan Khödan each morning like an enemy waiting beside his bed.

When the healers removed the bandages, they expected him to weep. He did not. His jaw locked, knuckles whitening as he watched the stump, raw flesh sewn into a future he did not want. His missing right hand twitched with phantoms, a thousand ghost-aches gnawing at nerves that no longer existed.

Warriors came to watch, pretending they were there to offer respect, but their eyes betrayed them. They came for spectacle, for proof that destiny had faltered. Khödan's once-impenetrable pride became a showpiece of tragedy.

Lady Bayarmaa held his shoulders still through the agony.Hordai said nothing. When fathers lack words, sons feel shame twice as sharply.

Khödan's siblings tried to help him adjust. Altan Khödan taught footwork without weapons; Khödan cursed every stance. Miraal strapped shields to his left arm; he smashed them against the wall in frustration. Otgul brought scrolls on left-handed swordplay until Khödan threw them into the fire.

Weeks passed, and rage became his only strength.

One night, he tried to hold a blade with his left hand alone. The weapon felt like a stranger. He practiced strikes until his palm bled, until the wooden post cracked. Still, something was wrong: his balance, his swing, his rhythm. What he lost was not a hand, nor merely honor. He lost his identity.

Warriors are not their names; they are the way the blade moves when pain tests them.

When exhaustion collapsed him, Hordai finally spoke.

"You cannot fight the way you did. So you must fight the way no other bull ever has."

He offered Khödan no sword, no axe, no shield. Instead he placed before him a bundle wrapped in black cloth. A strange weapon, one rarely allowed in noble clans:

A spiked chain, made of reinforced steel links that coiled like a serpent.

"No hand can be replaced," Hordai murmured."But a hand can be forgotten."

Khödan did not understand then. But he took the chain. He slept that night with its weight across his chest like a vow.

The next morning, as he practiced, every swing tore at his left shoulder, every spin cut his arms, every thrust nearly whipped him to the ground. Yet he kept training, fueled by humiliation, by the image of Melgil's calm gaze and Daniel's unshakable presence.

He would not beg forgiveness.He would impose respect.

By the seventh night, he was practiced enough not to kill himself with the weapon, but far from mastery. That was when a shadow approached the training yard.

A figure cloaked in ash-colored silk, marked with the symbol of a coiling viper biting its own tail. The guards did not stop him. His presence was invitation and threat both.

The emissary bowed low and spoke as though greeting a king in exile:

"Khödan Golden Bull, the West will make you crawl to reclaim your name. We offer you a path where strength is not judged by honor, but by victory alone."

Khödan recognized the emblem immediately, the Silent Viper Sect, masters of deception, forbidden tactics, poison, and unorthodox warfare. A clan whispered of in corridors, feared more than respected.

"Serve your thirst," the emissary continued. "We will carve you a new destiny, one that does not depend on hands."

A small case was set at his feet. Inside, nestled in black cloth, was a bladed gauntlet with three curved hooks, designed not to replace his hand… but to turn his wound into a weapon.

Khödan stared at it, breathing like a beast.

Not even the Golden Bulls would accept this path.But revenge rarely waits for permission, slowly, he reached for the gauntlet with his left hand, clasping the darkness as though greeting an old friend.

Khödan lifted the bladed gauntlet, its weight both promise and warning.The steel hooks shimmered like crescent fangs beneath the moon, and when the emissary saw how Khödan held it—how effortlessly rage fit into the hollow where a hand once had been—he smiled like a priest welcoming a sinner to the altar.

"Darkness does not need a master," the emissary whispered. "Only a vessel."

Khödan did not yet know who truly ruled the Absolute Dark, the ancient art that guided the Vipers, but as the chain coiled around his arm and the gauntlet pressed against the stump, something in him shifted. Not a surrender. A metamorphosis.

He was no longer learning to be a warrior.He was learning to be a weapon.

The wind howled against the towering iron wards that shielded Storm Skjorn's fortress-city. Snow lashed the harbor; ships creaked like dying beasts; and rune lights flickered along narrow battlements. It had been eight months since Daniel and Melgil first climbed the stairs of the second floor, eight months of studying runes, of revelations, of obsessions sharpened into discipline.

The morning fog still clung to the twin peaks overshadowing the Ouroboros Plateau when a sealed letter arrived at Storm Skjorn Fjord. The wax bore the phoenix crest of Solnara Cererindu, the merchant kingdom infamous for wealth-motivated wars, conspiracies, and treaties written in gold rather than honor. At the first-floor settlement—built where the "Centipede Calamity" had ended, stood the entrance leading to the Restricted Second Floor. Four victorious guilds and families who once cleared the Empire of Graves had established small bases around it. Outsiders waited desperately for entry, but the gate possessed its own judgment, opening only to those proven loyal to the victors. Knights guarded the area, but they mattered little; the gate's laws were older than kingdoms and crowns.

A wagon stopped several feet before the barrier, drawing attention from merchants and nobles alike. A woman stepped down from it: hair silver-white and cropped short, her body broad like an aging grandmother, dressed plainly in dark navy silk. Yet when Rothchester knights bowed deeply, the crowd gasped in disbelief. Head Steward Custodia of House Rothchester, personal servant to the Duke and Duchess. Without hesitation, she approached the gate. It shimmered, parting to allow her entry where countless others had been denied. She walked into the dim Ouroboros passage where Siglorr awaited, not in the terrifying golem armor that once crushed armies, but in a plain, heavy coat, reduced in presence as requested in secrecy by Daniel. Custodia inclined her head respectfully. "My thanks, Master Siglorr." The giant bowed slightly. "Your loyalty grants you entry. That is honor enough." He remained outside, refusing to reveal more of his identity.

Inside the Mjorska Hall, rune beams flared softly to announce authorized arrival. Eira Valsmir, young Skald-born courier and attendant, entered carrying a basket of winter fruits. When the runes lit with royal permission, she halted. Moments later, Custodia stepped from the activated gate. Eira placed her hand across her chest, bowing respectfully. "Welcome to Storm Skjorn Fjord, esteemed visitor. I am Eira Valsmir, attendant of the second floor. May I have the honor of knowing your name and purpose?" Custodia offered a dignified nod. "Head Steward Custodia of House Rothchester, servant to Duke and Duchess Laeanna Rothchester of Solnara Cererindu. I come bearing a private message for Lady Melgil Veara Gehinnom. I ask for discreet passage, if you would kindly guide me." The girl's eyes widened slightly at the name, but she smiled with polite composure. "Indeed. Lady Melgil currently resides in our guest chambers with her companion, Sir Daniel. I was just on my way to deliver these fruits to them. You are welcome to accompany me, Steward Custodia." Custodia replied gently, "You honor me, child. Lead on."

Together they walked through quiet stone corridors, lit dimly by rune-torches that murmured with dormant magic. As they approached the living quarters, faint thumps echoed through the hall—followed by muffled moans and hurried gutsful whispers coming from behind the door. Eira stopped abruptly, cheeks flushing scarlet as she clutched the fruit basket closer to her face.

Custodia raised a brow, listening, and a knowing smile softened her round features. In a voice warm with amusement, she murmured, "Ah… so the rumors had truth after all. The Duke and Duchess will be delighted. They've wished to see Lady Melgil blessed with heirs." Eira almost dropped the basket. "S-shall we… return later?" she stammered. Custodia shook her head gently, unfazed by scandal or surprise. "No. Let us knock gently. News waits for no blushes."

She tapped the door, firm, polite, without urgency. The laughter inside stopped instantly. There was a rustle of clothing, soft gasps, the hurried tightening of belts or buttons. A short silence stretched, heavy with embarrassment and curiosity. When the door finally opened, the sight before them was unmistakably awkward and intimate: Daniel stood bare from the waist up, hair tousled, breath still uneven, while Melgil, cheeks flushed and robe half-wrapped in haste, attempted to maintain dignity despite the swelling marks of affection on her collar. Eira nearly fainted into the basket. Custodia simply smiled like a grandmother catching children misbehaving, and bowed with impeccable grace.

"Lady Melgil. Sir Daniel. I bring urgent news from the Duchess."

The air thickened, not with shame, but with the sudden weight of revelation.

Daniel and Melgil stepped back to make room, hastily pulling the bedsheets tighter around themselves. Their half-covered forms were impossible to ignore, yet Custodia offered no judgment,only a calm, knowing composure. Eira, on the other hand, bowed so deeply that the fruit basket pressed awkwardly against her forehead. She set it down with trembling hands before she dared lift her gaze again.

Custodia produced a sealed envelope, embossed with the lacquered phoenix. Melgil accepted it with the same confidence she always carried in courtrooms and merchant tribunals, yet the flush on her throat betrayed distraction. She broke the wax seal and read in silence, her expression shifting gradually, from curiosity, to shock, to something colder and sharper. A message meant only for her. Daniel leaned a little closer, instinctively protective, but she gently rested her hand on his wrist, signaling that the contents were hers to bear alone.

Eira cleared her throat softly, eager to flee the thickness of awkward intimacy and political tension. "I...I brought winter fruits, Lady Melgil. Sir Daniel. Please enjoy them… at your leisure. I will, um… take my leave." She bowed again, stepped out, then nearly tripped as she hurried down the corridor, cheeks burning crimson.

Only once she was far from the door did her embarrassment fade, replaced by something else. Bewilderment. Curiosity. Even fear.

Until now, she and many others in Storm Skjorn Fjord had treated Daniel and Melgil as foreign nobles, or eccentric scholars blessed by mercantile magic. But the truth had quietly been building like a hidden storm. Their powers… their abilities… their sudden arrival into the Second Floor without permission, without history, without even origin papers—all of it had been concealed beneath polite silence.

They were nothing like the guild-born. Nothing like the merchant clans. Nothing like the Skald.

The Netherborn, if that was truly their clan—were nowhere recorded in rune-archives. They appeared from nowhere. They used gates that defied the empire's travel laws, opening dimensional pathways that only the oldest ruins hinted at. They raised companions out of nothing, summoned materials from empty air, spoke with beings the Fjord itself treated with respect. Even Siglorr, the Iron Mountain, the living fortress whom the Skald feared like a walking storm, bowed to Daniel's requests.

Everyone saw. No one asked.

Not because of respect.Because of survival.

Storm Skjorn was a city built on war, ruins, and desperation. Its people did not pry into mysteries that could crush them. They did not question powers they could not control. They chose to live, even if that meant accepting the unknown without explanation.

Quietly, Eira whispered to herself as she walked back toward the hall:

"Where did they come from… and what have we welcomed into our home?"

No Skald would speak that question aloud.Not to Daniel. Not to Melgil. Not to anyone.

Knowledge could kill faster than any sword. And the Netherborn had already proved, in only a few months, that they were not merely visitors.

They were a force the Fjord was not ready to challenge.

Melgil broke the wax seal with calm precision, her fingers brushing lightly against the edges of the envelope. She read, eyes narrowing slightly, then, unexpectedly, a faint, knowing smile curved her lips.

Daniel, standing close behind her, frowned in confusion. "What is it?" he asked softly.

Melgil folded the letter and held it delicately. "It's from your mother," she said, her voice steady, yet carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "She requests my presence… personally. Apparently, my attendance is… necessary."

Daniel blinked, caught between surprise and concern. "Only that? But…"

Melgil gave him a brief, reassuring smile. "It seems my presence is truly needed. The Duchess knows more than she lets on." She turned to Custodia. "Shall we depart at once?"

Custodia inclined her head, her gaze sharp, assessing. "My lady, will you accompany me back to the Rothchester estate immediately?"

"Yes," Melgil replied without hesitation. She leaned forward and pressed a quick, tender kiss to Daniel's cheek. "Daniel… I must go. The letter… it asks for me personally."

Daniel's brows knit together, a swirl of confusion and unease pressing down on him. "Personally? But why"

Custodia's voice cut softly through his thoughts, calm yet edged with subtle gravity. She stepped closer to Melgil, her eyes narrowing in a way that carried the weight of centuries of women's understanding, something unspoken, almost instinctual.

"My lady," Custodia murmured, her tone low and cryptic, "how long has it been… happening?"

Melgil's cheeks tinged with color, her eyes flickering with momentary hesitation. "About three times within a week… and twice as you've heard," she replied, almost in a whisper, her words carrying a meaning only women could fully grasp.

Custodia's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Then we must not waste another moment." She glanced sharply at the corridor, urgency hidden beneath her composed exterior. "Get dressed at once, young lady. There is no time to linger."

Daniel's confusion deepened, a knot of unease tightening in his chest. "Wait… what's going on?" he asked, voice half-commanding, half-bewildered.

Melgil offered him a small, reassuring shake of her head, her smile gentle yet tinged with secrecy. "Some things, Daniel… are not meant for you to understand just yet. Trust me."

Custodia, meanwhile, moved with brisk efficiency, her eyes scanning the hall with practiced vigilance, as if the very walls themselves might intrude upon their movements. There was a rhythm in her actions, purposeful, urgent, yet quiet enough to leave the mystery unresolved.

Daniel stared after them, unsure whether to follow, protest, or remain. Questions hung in the air like unsheathed daggers, sharp and unspoken. The Netherborn could confront armies, manipulate space, and command forces unknown, but even he, powerful as he was, felt the strange weight of secrets that belonged only to the realm of women… and to the courtly intrigues of the Rothchester estate.

And so, Melgil vanished from the hall, the echoes of her departure leaving Daniel alone with a flood of confusion, and a growing sense that something far larger than any letter, or even any war, was unfolding around them.

The Rothchester estate loomed on the distant horizon, its spires catching the pale winter light like blades of polished steel. Custodia guided Melgil swiftly through the corridors, each step echoing against the stone, yet carrying the grace of centuries of service. The household was alive with whispers, servants and attendants casting furtive glances at the Head Steward and her mysterious charge, but none dared approach. The aura surrounding Melgil now was unmistakable, an unspoken command that even seasoned courtiers instinctively respected.

By the time they arrived at the inner courtyard, the gates to the family legacy court were already open. A new threat loomed over the Rothchester lineage: rumors of rival claimants and a subtle shift in courtly alliances. The Duchess herself had taken a more hands-on approach in recent weeks, tightening control over potential adversaries while subtly reminding the old guard that loyalty was rewarded and defiance punished.

Custodia's gaze swept the courtyard, sharp, analytical, yet tinged with a subtle warmth reserved only for Melgil. "My lady," she murmured, almost conspiratorially, "the Duchesses' patience is a thin veil. You will find her glad to see you, but do not underestimate the eyes that watch from the shadows."

Melgil inclined her head, a spark of amusement in her gaze. Her own mana, once carefully restrained, now seeped freely, coiling around her like mist around a mountain peak. Every servant, every stone, even the air itself seemed to pulse in recognition of her presence. The second she stepped from the gate of the Second Floor, the weight of her aura—White Hair Calamity, Spider Demon Queen, Mistress of Forbidden Power, radiated outward, and the estate felt it. Some shrank away, some stared in awe, and those who knew better merely whispered prayers in fear.

The Duchess appeared in the courtyard with her customary poise, every movement measured and deliberate. She was proud, arrogant, warrior-born, and yet her expression softened upon seeing Melgil. "You honor us with your presence," she said, voice a mixture of regal authority and genuine warmth. The courtly snobbery and arrogance melted away, replaced by a rare personal fondness reserved only for Melgil.

Melgil bowed lightly, her smile warm but carrying an unspoken intensity, as if the letter had unlocked a fire within her. The Duchess' eyes flickered to Custodia, who inclined her head subtly, confirming what only women could know. Melgil's smile deepened, a flicker of private understanding crossing her features.

"My Duchess," Melgil said softly, stepping closer, "you summoned me… I have come."

"I did," the Duchess replied, eyes glinting with satisfaction. "And now, we finalize what has long been expected, your union with Daniel. It is time."

Melgil's cheeks warmed slightly, though her gaze never wavered from the Duchess. Her heart—and her body, carried a different urgency. Passion for Daniel had grown too potent to restrain; the thought of him, of the closeness they shared, sent currents of heat through her. Daniel, standing aside and still cloaked in confusion, felt the unspoken tension press against him. The power that Melgil exuded was no longer merely political, it was personal, intimate, dangerous.

The courtyard's atmosphere shifted further when another female noble approached, eyes flickering between Melgil and the Duchess. She carried the subtle airs of rivalry and curiosity, but the Duchess dismissed her with a single, imperious glance. She did not tolerate petty jealousy here—not when her affections for Melgil were clear. The noble faltered, unused to rejection of this kind in the presence of the household, and left with a stiff bow.

Custodia, watching the interaction closely, leaned toward Melgil. "My lady… the world may not yet know the full consequences of your power. But you have already been marked by fate." Her tone was cryptic, but filled with maternal caution.

Melgil inhaled sharply, sensing the resonance of her own mana rippling outward. The courtyard, the estate, even the walls themselves seemed to hum in recognition. She was no longer constrained; the energy coursing through her was raw, untamed, potent, yet contained only by her will.

Daniel's eyes widened, confusion threading his every thought. He wanted to speak, to question, but even he felt the overwhelming presence of Melgil's power pressing against reason. He had known her strength before, but this… this was something entirely new.

The Duchess extended her hand, regal and commanding, yet touched with a warmth that spoke of trust and affection. "Melgil… you are ready. And so is Daniel, I believe."

Melgil's smile turned slightly mischievous as she took the Duchess' hand in acknowledgment, then glanced at Daniel, her eyes burning with passion, teasing, and unspoken secrets. "Then we shall not waste another moment," she said, her voice low and intimate, meant for him alone.

Daniel swallowed hard, caught between awe, confusion, and desire. He had been summoned into the heart of Rothchester politics, but he had also been drawn into the storm of Melgil herself, and whatever future she carried with her, he did not yet fully understand.

And as the gates of the estate closed behind them, the lingering echo of the Spider Demon Queen's presence whispered through the stones, a promise of power, passion, and destiny yet to unfold.

Melgil stepped fully into the private chambers of the Rothchester estate, her presence immediately filling the room like a storm breaking over the sea. The Duchess, seated behind the ornate desk, leaned forward as if drawn by an invisible current. She had always respected Melgil's strength, but now, standing before her, Melgil radiated a power so immense it pressed on the senses.

At Valdyrheim, her abilities had been restrained—barely twenty percent of their potential, held in check by circumstance and necessity. But here, on the first floor of Storm Skjorn Fjord, freed from the confines of exile and secrecy, she was a living embodiment of calamity. Mana poured from her in waves, whispering of chaos, destruction, and life itself.

And in the womb of that power, the child she carried, a mere two weeks' growth—thrived. The tiny heartbeat, almost imperceptible to ordinary senses, pulsed in perfect rhythm with the ebbing of her mana. It absorbed her energy like a sponge, taking shape even in its earliest moments, entwined with the essence of the Spider Demon Queen that Melgil had once been.

The Duchess, ever perceptive and attuned to both politics and magic, reached forward instinctively. Her fingers brushed the small swell of Melgil's abdomen, and she felt it—the tiny, fierce pulse of life thriving amidst unrestrained power. Her eyes widened in delight. "So… it is true. Even in its earliest days, it has taken to your power. Oh, my child… my granddaughter," she whispered, almost lost in joy. "You must remain here… until it is ready to meet the world. Until it is ready to be born."

Melgil's gaze softened, touched by the Duchess' warmth, yet her mind raced. In her previous form, the Spider Demon Queen, giving birth had been effortless, thousands of eggs birthed as easily as breathing. Now, in her humanoid body, she needed to retain control, balance, and restraint. She could not simply erupt into calamity; Daniel was human, and the child she carried was fragile, bound to her in a way that demanded caution.

Custodia, standing at her side, spoke quietly but firmly. "My lady, the risks are not merely personal. Should you join Daniel in battle on the Second Floor, the power you now command… it may overwhelm him, or worse, harm the child. You must choose your path carefully."

Melgil nodded, her fingers curling over her abdomen, feeling the heartbeat once more. "I understand," she said, voice steady though tinged with both pride and concern. "I cannot risk the child, nor Daniel. My power… it must be contained. But I also cannot remain idle while our enemies stir below."

The Duchess' eyes glimmered, sharp and calculating, yet touched with affection. "Then we make a decision together. You remain here… for now. Until the child is ready. After that, you may resume your rightful place beside him. But the house, the estate, and this child… they must come first."

Melgil exchanged a glance with Custodia, silent acknowledgment passing between them. It was a firm, unspoken pact: power and passion restrained for a higher purpose, tempered by love and duty.

Daniel, standing just beyond the threshold, watched silently, confusion etched across his face. He had sensed the shift in Melgil the moment she stepped into the estate—the full release of her essence, the raw, overwhelming aura that pressed against reason. And now… he realized there was more than power at play. Something precious, fragile, and profoundly binding was growing within her, something he could neither see nor fully understand.

Melgil met his gaze for a moment, her eyes warm yet fierce. "Daniel," she said softly, "I will be here. But the child… and this power… must come first. Trust me. You will understand in time."

He swallowed hard, still caught between awe, fear, and desire, feeling the magnitude of what lay ahead. Outside, the estate gates held firm against the wind, but inside, the storm that was Melgil, Spider Demon Queen, Netherborn, mother-to-be, was already fully awake. And the future, like her power, would not be contained.

Melgil remained in the Rothchester chambers, her presence alone commanding attention. The Duchess paced slowly before her, hands clasped behind her back, each step measured, calculated. Every word she spoke carried weight, not only for Melgil but for the entire estate and the fragile web of alliances surrounding the Rothchester family.

"You see, my dear," the Duchess said, her tone both intimate and authoritative, "your arrival at the estate, and your… condition, changes everything. Allies and rivals alike will feel it. They will know that the Rothchester line is no longer merely political; it is… empowered."

Melgil's aura pulsed subtly, as though acknowledging the Duchess' words. The hum of her mana seeped into the stone walls, reaching the very foundations of the estate, intertwining with centuries of runic wards. Even the Second Floor gates, tuned to detect and regulate power, shivered in recognition, as though sensing a storm building outside their domain.

"You understand," the Duchess continued, voice sharp now with a mixture of pride and calculation, "that this child, already bound to your essence—marks the house in a way no treaty, no army, can replicate. Word of it, if revealed subtly, will command loyalty… and silence dissent."

Melgil inclined her head slightly, aware of the ripple effects. Her pregnancy was more than a personal matter, it was a tool, a living emblem of power. Two weeks in, and even in its earliest form, the child's heartbeat resonated in tandem with her mana, amplifying it. The estate itself seemed to respond, corridors pulsing faintly with her presence, wards glowing in subtle, synchronized rhythm with the tiny pulse in her womb.

"And the court," the Duchess added, her eyes narrowing, "must see this. Every noble, every minor lord, every ambitious house that doubts Rothchester influence… they will understand that we are unassailable. Not by force alone, but by fate itself." She paused, glancing at Custodia, whose expression was calm but calculating. "Custodia, see that the proper messages are prepared. Subtle, discreet, yet unmistakable. Let the world feel this power before it fully awakens."

Custodia nodded. "It will be done, my lady. Only those who deserve knowledge will perceive it, and those who would oppose will hesitate at what they cannot comprehend."

Melgil, still feeling the hum of power emanating from her body, understood the unspoken layers in Custodia's words. Allies would be drawn closer, enemies dissuaded—not through fear alone, but by recognition that this power, this lineage, could not be challenged. Her own mana, enhanced by the life growing within her, was already a living emblem of authority, one the estate—and the world beyond, could neither ignore nor fully grasp.

The Duchess smiled, an expression both proud and sly. "Stay here until the child is ready. Every moment you are present strengthens our standing. Every pulse, every step, every glance you give… it reshapes the balance of power around us."

Melgil nodded, her fingers lightly resting on her abdomen. The sensation of her growing child, absorbing mana, absorbing her essence, made her aware of her responsibilities in a new way. Every breath, every heartbeat, was a declaration, a promise, and a warning.

Beyond the estate, the Second Floor gates shimmered faintly, reacting subtly to the surge of power emanating from the first floor. Rumors of Melgil's presence and condition would not be necessary to unsettle allies and rivals alike, the very stones and wards carried the message.

In the weeks to come, whispers of Rothchester resurgence would spread. Subtle shifts in alliances, the quiet hesitancy of minor houses, the recalibration of trade and tribute—all orchestrated not through open war, but through the inevitability of power, now embodied in a single, formidable presence.

And Melgil, the White Hair Calamity Spider Demon Queen, no longer restrained, no longer merely a visitor in their world, would be the fulcrum around which the Rothchester legacy pivoted. She was a living storm, a herald of authority, and the child she carried was the pulse at its center.

The Duchess turned to her once more, a soft but commanding note in her voice: "Remember, my dear… power must be wielded wisely. But even in restraint, you are already invincible."

Melgil's gaze swept the chamber, the estate, and beyond, into corridors and gates humming faintly with her resonance. She smiled, the faint shimmer of mana around her like a halo of quiet calamity. The Rothchester estate would endure, not merely through swords or treaties, but through what it now held within, an untamed, growing force that even time itself would be compelled to acknowledge.

The Duchess leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on Melgil with a mixture of awe and careful calculation. She knew the gravity of the moment: word of Melgil's condition could not, must not, reach Daniel. His destiny, his rise as a Netherborn, demanded focus, discipline, and absolute vigilance. The knowledge that his beloved was carrying his child could jeopardize everything he had built, his alliances, his enemies' perception of him, even his own resolve.

Aereth Rothchester, the Duke, known throughout the lands as the Silver Reaper, entered the chamber silently, his long coat brushing the floor like a shadow. His presence alone commanded attention. "Elleena," he said softly, nodding to his wife, "you are certain the estate is impervious?"

"Absolutely," Elleena replied, her voice steel wrapped in silk. She was the Divine Iron Duchess, and her reputation for vigilance and strategy was legendary. "No outsider, no enemy mage, no curious noble, or spy, can penetrate our wards or listen to our whispers. Not even the strongest of mages could sense what lies beneath these stones, thanks to the measures we've taken over decades. And with Siglorr's forge artifacts, Daniel has fortified the Second Floor beyond reckoning. Our home is secure."

Melgil, standing near the center of the chamber, felt the subtle hum of magic reverberating through the walls. Every ward, every enchanted artifact, every rune carved into the stone amplified her presence and simultaneously absorbed the potent, growing aura of her unrestrained mana. The child she carried, her first, thrummed in tandem with the estate itself, a quiet heartbeat resonating through the foundations.

Custodia, ever vigilant, observed the Duchess and Duke with a careful, approving nod. "My lady, my lord, the balance has shifted, yes, but the estate remains untouchable. The child's presence does not yet betray us beyond these walls. Those outside may feel only faint ripples, easily dismissed as rumor or wind."

Elleena's gaze softened slightly as she considered Melgil. "We have kept this secret for the sake of your child, and for Daniel. The world must not know what it cannot yet control."

Aereth placed a hand lightly on Melgil's shoulder, an anchor of reassurance. "Our heir will not face unnecessary danger. Daniel's enemies would seize the knowledge in an instant, and many still wish him gone. The moment they sense vulnerability… they strike. You and the child remain hidden, unseen, untouchable."

Melgil inclined her head, understanding the delicate web around her. Her power was now fully unsealed. At Valdyrheim, she had been constrained, restricted to a fraction of her might. Here, in the sanctuary of the Rothchester estate, her essence poured freely, radiant and unstoppable. Even two weeks in, her child absorbed the surge of mana with astonishing speed. The estate itself seemed alive with the resonance, as though anticipating the birth of a force both mortal and divine.

Custodia, speaking quietly, brought forth the envelope. The wax seal bore the unmistakable crest of Solnara Cererindu. "The letter arrived today," she said. "It concerns your forthcoming marriage, my lady."

Melgil's gaze flicked toward it, her pulse quickening. She carefully broke the seal. The contents, meant to be ceremonial and formal, twisted unexpectedly in her hands. The Duchess and Duke exchanged subtle glances. This was no ordinary announcement, it was a surprise even to them.

"The marriage…" Melgil murmured, lips curving into a small, unreadable smile. "It is not merely formal. They have… accelerated the timeline."

Elleena's sharp eyes detected more than words on paper. "Accelerated… and yet, the announcement is discreet. A test of loyalty and subtle influence. We did not expect it. Even so… we will adjust." She glanced at Aereth. "Every measure we've taken to shield our home, every artifact, every ward… it is exactly why we are prepared."

Aereth's lips curled faintly, a shadow of a smile. "Let the courtiers wonder, let the rivals speculate. They will see only what we allow them. The rest… belongs to us alone."

Melgil set the letter aside, feeling the pulse of her child echoing in tandem with her mana. Even as the estate's wards amplified her power, she felt the delicate, fragile weight of her responsibility. This child was more than life, it was influence, it was potential, it was a force that could tilt the balance of power in ways no army could.

Elleena approached Melgil, her voice low but commanding. "Remain here, protected, until the child is ready. Let the outside world wait. And when the time comes… Daniel will inherit not only the legacy of the Netherborn but a line strengthened by your presence, by your power, and by what grows within you."

Melgil's smile was faint, knowing, and slightly mischievous. The Spider Demon Queen of legend had become a protector, a mother, a living symbol of calamity restrained—but also a force no one outside these walls could hope to influence.

Outside, the estate gates shimmered faintly, sensing the resonance within. Even the Second Floor, far above, felt the subtle ripple. The Veridica doctrine continued to spread through the southern tribes, unaware that the pulse of a newborn power—quiet, intimate, and terrifying—had already begun to shape the world from within the Rothchester estate.

The letter had been intended as a formality. Instead, it had unveiled a reality none of them had anticipated. And in the quiet hum of the estate, beneath wards, stones, and ancient enchantments, a storm waited, patient, hidden, unstoppable.

Eight months had passed since Daniel and Melgil first stepped into the Second Floor Realm. A world once scarred and fuelled by generations of relentless war, spontaneous raids, and bloodshed offered to appease gods that rarely answered, now began to breathe differently. Where chaos had reigned, a new rhythm of life emerged, shaped by the presence of the Netherborn, by Daniel himself, and the Veridica doctrine he imparted.

At first, many were skeptical. Descendants of warriors and survivors of ceaseless carnage had known nothing but the cycle of violence. Honor had been measured in scars, blood, and conquest. But Daniel offered another way, a way of discipline, logic, and mastery over both body and spirit. Slowly, cautiously, they began to accept it.

Peace, once a fleeting rumor, started to take root. Raids diminished, replaced by structured training, dueling for honor rather than destruction, and alliances forged through trust rather than fear. The doctrine taught that true strength was not in blind devotion to distant gods, but in understanding oneself, respecting others, and honing the mind and body to reflect that balance.

Clan leaders, masters of martial skill and fierce individual style, began to adapt. Alva Valsmir refined her swift strikes, weaving them with Veridica principles to increase precision and efficiency. Varrik Stonejaw Thryn fused brute strength with the doctrine's defensive techniques, mastering the balance between offense and endurance. Eldra Ironveil, long a scholar-warrior, combined her intimate knowledge of rune magic with Veridica meditative practices, creating a fighting style both elegant and deadly.

Even Bjorn Raskir, Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend, and other legendary figures began to evolve. They recognized that adherence to the doctrine enhanced both personal skill and the cohesion of their clans. Bjorn Halvarsson and Runa Hallveig's fame spread as they taught these principles to young warriors who had never known stability, turning chaos into disciplined excellence.

Farther south, near the Curse Lands, Skadi Frosttongue of the Iron Fang Clan observed the Veridica doctrine's principles with skepticism, but even she could not deny its effectiveness. Her warriors, initially resistant, found that the doctrine sharpened both mind and body, enhancing traditional techniques while eliminating reckless losses in combat. Slowly, even the fiercest southern masters began to integrate its logic-based teachings, creating new forms of martial arts that were more adaptable, more lethal, yet more disciplined.

Stories of the Netherborn traveled across the realm. Daniel's deeds were not hidden: he healed the wounded, fed the starving, and offered aid to Skald-born communities ravaged by war. And yet, he asked nothing in return. No tribute, no honorifics, no blood oath, only adherence to the principles of Veridica. Those who witnessed this generosity firsthand carried the tales back to their villages and clans, spreading the doctrine like a quiet, unstoppable tide.

Where once fear and superstition ruled, logic, honor, and structured discipline now commanded respect. Even those who had worshipped gods they could never see began to question their traditions, realizing that power, guidance, and salvation could be learned, practiced, and perfected, not simply prayed for.

The Second Floor Realm was no longer merely a battlefield; it was a crucible of transformation. Under Daniel's guidance, the descendants of endless war were learning the art of measured violence, the balance of mercy and rigor, and the brilliance of honor upheld not by tradition alone, but by reasoning and skill.

The realm, once fractured and chaotic, now pulsed with a new energy: a disciplined, intelligent force, ever-growing, ever-shaping the destiny of clans, warriors, and lands alike. And through it all, Daniel's presence remained an unspoken yet undeniable anchor, a living testament to what the Netherborn could teach, and what the world could achieve if it chose understanding over mindless slaughter.

The plains stretched endlessly beneath a pale dawn, the morning mist curling like silent ghosts over the eastern and central lands. Yet the ghosts were about to be joined by fire, steel, and the unrelenting will of the living.

Freydis, the Crimson Witch, stood atop a low hill overlooking her assembled forces. Her hair was a river of red flames in the wind, eyes glowing faintly with the runes she had inscribed upon her body. She was not merely the first wife of Eirikr Bloodmane—she was a sovereign of terror, a queen who commanded obedience through blood, runecraft, and sheer will. Tribes had bent beneath her, warriors kneeling to her rituals, their veins coursing with blood-tainted magic.

Her army numbered ten thousand strong, each imbued with the berserker potion sanctioned by Eirikr himself, as advised by the elders of the White Devil Guild. The potion tripled strength, speed, and ferocity, but left the mind dangerously unrestrained—pure raw force under her command.

Across the eastern plains, the clans of the Second Floor gathered in response. Alva Valsmir, Varrik Stonejaw Thryn, Eldra Ironveil, Bjorn Raskir, Jarl Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend, and Skadi Frosttongue had rallied their forces, combining their traditional martial arts with the Veridica doctrine Daniel had imparted. Each leader commanded their warriors with precision, honed through months of disciplined training, their formations tight yet flexible, each fighter attuned to the next as if part of a single organism.

Though Daniel remained absent, his influence was undeniable. Every movement, every formation, every tactical choice reflected his philosophy: fight with honor, conserve strength, exploit weakness, and above all, maintain discipline. He had taught them to read the battlefield as a living entity, to anticipate the enemy's chaos and respond not with brute force, but with logical, measured strategy.

Freydis raised her arms, summoning runes of crimson light into the sky. A collective chant rose from her army, resonating with blood magic that throbbed like a heartbeat across the battlefield. Wolves, berserkers, and enchanted beasts prowled at her side. The earth itself seemed to shiver under the surge of her power.

But the clans held their ground. Alva's archers let arrows fly in precise volleys, while Bjorn's infantry surged forward in disciplined waves, each strike coordinated with the doctrine's principles. Eldra's rune-infused warriors created defensive barriers, channeling energy to enhance reflexes and endurance. Even Skadi's southern warriors, known for their raw aggression, moved with a new rhythm, anticipating, adapting, and striking in concert with one another.

The first clash was brutal. Berserkers lunged forward, their enhanced strength allowing them to tear through shields and armor that would have stopped ordinary men. But the Veridica-trained clans met them without panic. Where chaos reigned in Freydis' army, the clans exploited gaps, redirected momentum, and used controlled bursts of force to break the berserkers' lines. The logic of the doctrine countered the madness of the potion.

High above the battlefield, Daniel watched from the Second Floor gates. He did not touch the fight directly, but his presence was felt. Subtle manipulations of space and energy guided the battlefield in ways unseen, walls of protective energy subtly nudging formations, weak points in enemy lines highlighted through imperceptible distortions, small bursts of energy amplifying the clans' endurance at key moments. He was everywhere and nowhere, a shadow of influence, ensuring that the doctrine's principles manifested perfectly.

Freydis roared in frustration as her best warriors fell in controlled traps, her blood magic faltering against the precision and cohesion of the clans. The berserker potion amplified their bodies but could not grant them the understanding that the doctrine instilled. Strategy, discipline, and foresight, these were weapons she could not buy or brew.

By noon, the battlefield had shifted. The clans, though bloodied, remained intact, while Freydis' forces began to crumble, not merely from losses, but from the very potion meant to make them unstoppable. The berserker elixir had stripped them of reason. Minds once capable of strategy, loyalty, and discipline had dissolved into a blind, rabid fury. Warriors no longer saw enemies to subdue or capture, they saw only targets to annihilate. Their movements were chaotic, brutal, and terrifying, like wolves stripped of pack cohesion.

The Veridica-trained war clans, in contrast, moved with terrifying efficiency. Each slash was deliberate, each strike calculated to end the battle with the least expenditure of energy. Their attacks flowed seamlessly from one formation to the next. They did not rush blindly into the fray; instead, they assessed the battlefield continuously, reading terrain, enemy posture, and even subtle fluctuations of mana among the berserkers. Paths of attack were chosen with foresight; strikes were delivered where they would be most lethal.

Alva Valsmir's archers, guided by the doctrine's principles, fired volleys that funneled the berserkers into predictable patterns, where infantry and rune-casters awaited. Bjorn Raskir and Skadi Frosttongue exploited isolated pockets of fury, cutting down the mindless warriors with minimal effort, their blades guided by the logic of Veridica. Even Eldra Ironveil's rune barriers were used offensively, redirecting attacks and amplifying the clans' movements. The battlefield became a symphony of precision and controlled power.

Where Freydis' potion had created uncontrolled chaos, Veridica instilled purpose. Warriors moved as extensions of one another, anticipating openings, adjusting to threats in real time, and exploiting every flaw. Kill after kill was executed cleanly, each fatal strike a demonstration of discipline triumphing over raw, mindless strength.

By mid-afternoon, entire regiments of berserkers had succumbed to their own uncontrolled aggression, turning inward, trampling one another in blind rage, or being cut down with surgical efficiency. The land itself seemed to recoil from their chaotic presence, as if acknowledging the collapse of Freydis' plan.

As the sun began its descent, the first coordinated Veridica campaign had succeeded beyond expectation. The Veridica doctrine had proven more than a theory: it was a practical evolution in warfare, a paradigm capable of controlling chaos and refining the art of combat. Where generations had relied on sheer numbers, blind devotion, or the favor of gods they could not see, the clans had demonstrated that understanding, strategy, and discipline could prevail against even the most fearsome enhancements.

News would spread. Word of the battle, the precision of the Veridica-trained clans, and the defeat of Freydis' feared berserkers would travel across the Second Floor Realm. A new order was emerging, a doctrine of logic, honor, and mastery. And in its quiet, unwavering triumph, Daniel's unseen influence had guided the hands of countless warriors, reshaping the land's understanding of power, discipline, and the very meaning of war.

Daniel returned to his chambers without ceremony, unnoticed by the clans whose formations he had shaped like a quiet sculptor of war. He did not seek their praise, nor linger to hear the chants that would soon carry his doctrine across the plains. His mind was already dissecting the battl, identifying weaknesses, refining principles, noting every lesson the clans had yet to learn. While others celebrated, he prepared for the next conflict. The realm's horizon was shifting, and he knew that the change had only begun.

Far to the realms of mortals whispers continued to spread. Tales of a nameless instructor, a calm strategist, a Netherborn who spoke of discipline rather than divine tribute, trickled into the stubborn clans of the west. Warlords scoffed at the idea that a single outsider could achieve what countless chieftains and tyrants had failed to impose. Yet their mockery could not smother the truth: the tribes were changing, and they were doing so willingly. A seed had been planted, and it was outgrowing every god that had once shaped this bloody land.

The lesser gods felt it first, an unfamiliar pull, a thinning of divinity. Mortals were still fighting, still offering blood, still surviving… yet their hearts no longer bowed to the old narratives. What fed these lesser gods was not simple belief, but alignment, actions echoing their stories. Now those patterns were drifting toward the Netherborn, and the gods watched him with mounting unease.

They had mocked him at first. A stubborn young outsider, confusing, unpredictable, too emotional to rise above the tide of their ancient culture. Yet while they laughed, Daniel never sat idle. He moved quietly, and more importantly, he delegated. His presence, like Melgil's, became the perfect distraction, visible enough to draw attention, loud enough to mislead, while his true force moved in silence.

Siglorr Bouldergrove and his elusive clan faded from sight, becoming a rumor rather than an ally. Olmar Bouldergrove, Siglorr son only one-hundred-twenty and deceptively childlike at three feet six inches tall, traveled with his mother Wrenla, a two-hundred-eighty-year-old matriarch with eyes sharper than any rune-carved blade. Imgrim, age seven hundred and two, fought only when he chose, a retired warrior with patience as heavy as stone.

Their adopted daughter, Elaria Syrune, an elf of ninety years with white skin, emerald eyes, and delicate beauty, charmed villages and warbands alike, gathering stories with her smile. Cragmir Bouldergrove, Siglorr's brother and commander of the war forge guards, roamed with them. Together, they spread curated myths of wandering benefactors. beings who healed starving tribes, defended sixty now renamed Neth'raen clan , as hey were abandoned by their gods, and Daniel asked nothing in return. Rumors multiplied, witnesses exaggerated, and the land's narrative began twisting toward a new truth: salvation without divinity.

Daniel himself merely nudged the path. His plan for the central plains relied heavily on the philosophy once held by Jarl Ragnar Stormbreaker. Daniel had learned of it not through begging reverence of force , but through old guild reports, knowledge scavenged from the shadows while he lay recovering months ago. All pieces, now set like weights upon a scale, were shifting fate toward him.

the quest was hit was vague and any interpretation can be created as a answer, many tried to conquer and grab power by blood, fear and false hope, the lesser gods love it , their worshipers feed them faith and made them stronger with no obligation to return those sorrow plea for help by praying and offering them blood that their followers thought would satisfy them.

as these lesser gods, argue as their believers slowly fades, 

In the higher realm of unseen but the lesser gods knew , Sigma, the tower's Administrator, monitored the balance. Sigma and the other Administrator, duty was not to interfere but to maintain stability among the lesser gods who governed the Second Floor. He watched as the scale leaned toward the Netherborn once more. No direct conflict had arisen between them, but the Administrator could already foresee turmoil.

But among the gods, Bjoldr the Thunderfather alone seemed unconcerned, a deity formed from the idea of storm-hardened honor, Bjoldr relished the changes. He laughed at the panic of his peers, for unlike them, his strength did not decay with fading prayer. Mortals could abandon him, curse him, or forget his name entirely; so long as warriors embodied his narrative, he endured. And the Veridica doctrine, whether intentionally or not, honored Bjoldr perfectly.

Self as Measure. victory achieved through mastery over oneself. Purposeful Action .no needless cruelty, no wasted blow.C ourage through Awareness . death and fear accepted, not worshipped. Honor in Preservation , strength guided, not reckless. Growth through Discipline , refinement through work, not divine gift. Legacy of Reason , actions echo longer than prayers.

These principles were not worship, yet they lived in the same story that birthed Bjoldr. As warriors trained by Daniel, they fought with restraint, wisdom, and precision, Bjoldr's myth thickened, his storm-form crackling more vividly. He appeared as a humanoid mass of vibrating thunder clouds, muscles rippling with lightning, faceless except for the echo of distant thunder. He thrived not through devotion, but through alignment.

Other gods were not so fortunate.

Surtrheimr—forge-fire spirit of destruction to create.

Lyruna—tide-born keeper of secrets.

Vargrim—wolf of hunger and greed.

Skjolna—frost's embodiment of boundaries and endurance.

Helvyr—stubborn healer of fragile life.

Mardôll, Hôrn Bloodbind—rune-sorceress dominion over blood.

Oruun Sablethought—dreaming of lust 

None were like the old gods that came from Chaos and order, These ancient pantheon required no belief, no alignment, they existed beyond mortal influence. But these new ones were narrative beings, shaped by mortal action. They were stories made flesh, dependent on humanity's behavior to define their immortality. As the Veridica doctrine spread, fewer actions echoed the gods of war-madness, empty tribute, or blind reverence. Power was slipping from their divine grasp not because people stopped praying, but because people stopped behaving according to the gods' stories.

Faith in this world was not prayer, nor sacrifice faith was action.

And the more the Second Floor acted like Daniel, the more their gods faded.

as the same time Freydis the Crimson Witch felt, with icy clarity, the moment her dominion began to rot , as she failed her husband , swore with the pride she kept many years , all crumble The battlefield's end was not merely a defeat; it was a silent abandonment by her god who she worshiped and offered many lives it was Mardôll, Hôrn Bloodbind—rune-sorceress dominion over blood.

Ten thousand of her warriors manipulated , had returned not as conquering beasts, but as unrecognizable carcasses. Their deaths did not scream her name. No faith fed the Crimson Vein. No glory bled into her runes. Instead, the dying minds of her berserkers whispered something else discipline, restraint, clarity. Words tied not to her domain, but to another's.

Veridica.

The syllables stung her like ice cutting through blood. It was a doctrine she could not kill, because it was not merely believed, it was being acted upon. Faith in this realm was not forged through worship or prayer. It was carved through behavior, choice, and identity. The clans who slaughtered her enhanced warriors cleanly and precisely had unknowingly bled their devotion away from her god, feeding a rival truth in every controlled strike. The Crimson Vein grew thinner.

Freydis pressed her hand against her chest, and for the first time in centuries, she felt her heart struggle, beating like an untamed animal trying to escape a cage. Her god's quiet withdrawal was not a whisper; it was disownment. Freydis understood immediately: belief had shifted away from blood-dominion. The Berserker Oath was no longer a reflection of the people's nature. Rage was not their truth anymore. And so her god, the manifestation of bound blood and dominance, began to starve.

Her rage did not shake the ground, it froze it. Her form shimmered as runes crawled beneath her skin like veins of molten ruby trying to burst free. She retreated to the deepest chamber beneath the Bloodmane stronghold, a place no wife had entered for generations: The Red Vault, where forbidden runes, outlawed even by the her ancestors were sealed.

She entered a hall of pulsing pillars, each carved from the bones of oath-breakers, soaked and re-soaked in blood-ink until they throbbed with tortured memory. At the center lay an altar whispered about only in nightmares, Hjartfell, the Heart-Stone, carved from the last living heart of a forgotten god. It beat once a century. But now, it beat rapidly. Thud. Thud. Thud. Not from life—from hunger.

Freydis placed her palm upon it, and the stone split along its rib-like carvings. Liquid rune-blood rose like smoke, dripping upward instead of down. The scent of copper and sorrow filled her lungs. She inhaled deeply, knowing what she was about to awaken had been condemned by the old gods themselves. Her own god's fading presence did not stop her. She called upon the deeper law beneath all pantheons, the law that existed before story, before belief, when power was simply taken.

Her voice cut through the vault like a serrated dagger. "If the people will not reflect our story… then I will reshape their story to reflect us."

Blood-light burst from her veins, twisting her arms with glyphs too grotesque for human flesh. The runes she summoned were no longer crimson, they were blackened red, thrashing violently, like blood turned rabid. These were the Forbidden Runes of Origin Binding—once used to tether entire tribes to gods by force, rewriting instinct, emotion, and identity. A ritual capable of binding free will to a single divine narrative, overwriting the truth of mortals and gods alike.

Freydis smiled, serene and terrifying. "Let Veridica preach purpose. I will devour purpose itself."

Behind her, the Heart-Stone began to scream. The Crimson Witch raised her arms, not to worship, but to command. 

" oh great Mardôll, Hôrn Bloodbind, I offer you my blood ,life and soul , make me your vassal ,so i can redeem my faith to you,"

the lesser Mardôll, Hôrn Bloodbind, heard her cry and was granted free access to enter her body, and with that Freydis the Crimson Witch was no longer mortal bound, while this was happening, Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane war lord of the North watches her from the eyes of a crow eyes, he smiled .

" oh my dear wife , you finally understood your purpose , the gods are truly on my side, give them fear and bath in their blood , soon your fallen ten thousand shall fall in line among the millions of my undead army."

And somewhere far every clan warrior who had tasted Veridica discipline felt a sudden throb behind their eyes, a sharp pulse like a chain being forged in secret. The doctrine had evolved… but now, the war for the soul of the realm had begun.

In the unseen heights of the Second Floor, where beliefs crystallized into storms and storms became consciousness, the lesser gods trembled, not from fear, but from recognition. A cry had awakened, older than their birth, older than the stories that shaped them; it was not a cry of worship, nor of prayer, but of forced narrative, a scream of the Heart-Stone racing through the seiðr field like a blood-charged thunderclap.

Bjoldr's laughter cracked like a mountain splitting under its own weight, a booming roar that rolled across the sky and rippled through every other god's form. Lightning pulsed from his chest in mocking waves, like drumbeats of war no longer taken seriously. Vargrim Hollowmaw stiffened, shadow-fur bristling, frost fangs exposed in insulted fury. Yet Bjoldr did not posture, did not bare power like the others. He simply stood,storm-tall, unmoving, a philosophy given shape.

"After a thousand years you still growl like a mutt," Bjoldr thundered, voice shaking the wind itself. "You never fought with skill. You gnawed and tore until bones snapped, mistaking savagery for strength."

Vargrim lunged halfway forward, jaws parting to swallow the storm-light, but lightning lanced across the sky without striking him, forming a cage of blinding arcs that hissed close enough to singe his shadow-fur. It was not an attack. It was a line drawn.

Bjoldr's faceless visage tilted slightly, as though amused by the beast who thought hunger was power. "Change is inevitable," he continued, his storms whirling with solemn certainty. "I do not fear it. My story was never written in names or shrines. My existence is tied to real combat, honor, restraint, mastery." His lightning quieted into a steady thunder-hum, the sound of resolve more than threat. "Even if my name fades, my philosophy will remain."

Vargrim's snarl cracked, confusion and fury intertwining. "You mock me, while mortals abandon us!" he spat. "They leave hunger behind. They trade instinct for discipline. Let Freydis bind them, let dominion return! And you… you laugh?"

Bjoldr leaned forward, and for a breathless moment the storm turned silent. The air itself trembled like a warrior bracing before the charge. Then his voice dropped, rumbling through the world like truth spoken in a forge:

"I laugh because you still mistake obedience for strength. You want mortals crawling, salivating at the leash of blood and instinct. I want them standing. Choosing their strikes. Building their legacy." Lightning surged outward again, not as rage, but as conviction. "So do your worst, Vargrim Hollowmaw. Be the beast you are. Act on hunger. Bind nothing, build nothing, leave nothing. That is your nature."

The wolf god trembled, half with rage, half with something deeper, something he had never admitted: fear that hunger alone could not survive a world choosing purpose.

Surtrheimr, molten and massive, finally spoke again, his bellows-voice layered with heated laughter. "Bjoldr speaks true, Wolf. Power earned endures. Power forced breaks." He cast a molten glare toward the direction of Freydis' ritual. "Let the witch twist their minds. It will not forge loyalty, only brittleness. And brittle things" his molten arms spread wide, sparks hissing like laughter, "—shatter best in the fire."

One by one, the gods shifted their stances. Lyruna shrank back into rippling pools, uncertain. Vargrim paced in and out of frost-shadow, torn between frenzy and doubt. Even the quiet stars on Oruun Sablethought's cloak began to pulse in wary interest.

For the first time in centuries, the pantheon felt something they had forgotten:

Mortals were no longer reacting to gods.Mortals were now creating philosophies that rivaled divinity.

And Freydis Bloodbind was about to force the realm backward, clawing against that evolution.

The storm growled, the forge hissed, the tides shuddered, the wolf's hunger scraped against ice.

The gods watched the battlefield of belief shifting beneath them.And the war for the soul of the realm was no longer between armies.It was between narratives.

And narratives, once awakened, do not die quietly.

The lower pantheon was fractured, divided; some welcomed Freydis' ritual as a return to the primal order, others feared the collapse of choice and the decay of narrative freedom, yet one presence remained silent longer than the rest. A towering silhouette of sculpted ice pressed its palm to the frigid ether, and Skjolna Wintergrave, the Veil of Frost, spoke with a frozen creak, deliberate and slow: "Growth without restraint.

Belief without reflection. If she binds mortals, she will bind us… into chains of her making." The realm shuddered. Even gods could be ensnared if mortals followed only one path, not by choice, but by rewritten instinct; faith could become a cage powerful enough to trap divinity itself.

From the deepest quiet, darkness stirred like ink spreading across parchment, a robed figure of night and logic flickering into view,

Oruun Sablethought, Keeper of Night-Reason, stars shimmering and vanishing across his cloak, eyes appearing and fading, his voice a whisper sharper than any blade:

"This is a battle of doctrine… not of blood. The young man of Veridica has altered behavior. The witch now seeks to alter will. And whichever triumphs will shape the law of faith itself."

A silent realization rippled through the pantheon: this war would not decide who ruled the Second Floor; it would decide what kind of world could exist, choice or compulsion, doctrine or domination, reason or blood. Bjoldr thundered, his body crackling brighter than any storm, declaring,

"Then we must choose, as they choose. I stand with action, with discipline, with earned strength."

Vargrim Hollowmaw's eyes burned with feral hunger as he snarled,

"And I stand with instinct. With hunger unchained."

The pantheon split, a storm of doctrines, a clash of principles, gods against gods, not for worship, but for the truth mortals would embody.

And far below, unaware of the celestial fracture he had ignited, Daniel Rothchester wove his unseen strategy deeper through the clans, moving in silence as Freydis bled her forbidden ritual into awakening, a realm-wide battle beginning without swords striking yet, where even a mortal's choice became a weapon, and the Second Floor itself trembled at the consequences of belief and action intertwined.

As these lesser gods argue and talk among themselves, they still understand what this change means to them, many lesser gods have faded and they never expected they would face too, this never happened, many came and roe up but still got swallowed , those who were able it unit the land didn't last long , even demi gods their own mortal offspring who live longer also succumb to the realms natural order.

Vargrim, the Wolf of Hunger, the embodiment of unrelenting greed and primal instinct, crouched at the edge of perception, a shadow among shadows, his form half-mad with coiled anticipation. For centuries he had watched his bloodline stagger across the frozen north, followers clinging to his name through fear, brutality, and obedience, but the march of time had dulled his patience.

His hopes for his most loyal descendant, Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, had grown thin; the warlord had carved his territory with teeth and steel, claiming titles through sheer violence and terror, yet still Vargrim felt the weight of delay, the slow churn of mortal ambition frustrating his hunger for tangible dominion.

And now, across the shifting ether of the Second Floor, the whispers of a new force had reached him, the lore of the Netherborn, of this enigmatic Daniel Rothchester whose influence bent even clans hardened by generations of war toward reason rather than fear.

To Vargrim, it was intoxicating, a forbidden feast laid bare before him. Those who worshipped him were still bound by fear, trembling before his name, their prayers and sacrifices feeding his essence even as their hearts quivered at the threat of his wrath, but it was enough, just barely enough, to sustain the god, to keep his hunger alive and his presence unchallenged.

Yet the lure of the Netherborn's doctrine, the subtle reshaping of will without the threat of fang or claw, gnawed at him with a savage curiosity. It was not mere survival or power, it was a challenge, a new source of fuel for his hunger, a story that could twist and grow into a narrative strong enough to reshape belief itself. And so, from the unseen corners of the north, Vargrim's eyes glimmered like frozen steel as he considered his next move: whether to nudge Eirikr toward confrontation, to test the mettle of his mortal line against this rising doctrine, or to step directly into the weaving of fate himself.

The scales of hunger and fear teetered in his mind, but one truth remained unshakable, faith, even forced, even trembling, even trembling out of fear, was still power. And power, once fed, always hungered for more. so he decided to used Mardôll, Hôrn Bloodbind fear of fading, push her to already do something reckless as she walked in side a mortal body.

Mardôll Hôrn Bloodbind, called by mortals the Crimson Witch, though what stood inside those walls was no longer her, had ceased to be a woman. Freydis' soul had already been eaten by something older, something hungry. What moved her arms now, what chanted through her throat, was the god she had tried to serve…and the abyss beneath it.

Within the secondary fortress, Blackrun Keep, a mile from the main Crimson Glaciers stronghold, she stood in a chamber of frozen veins and iron altars, her silhouette trembling with unnatural pulses. Snow outside fell red, dyed by seiðr that bled upward through the ice like reversed waterfalls. The air itself shivered with the smell of copper and death.

There, amid walls carved with twisting blood-script, Mardôll summoned the land itself.

Not the stone.Not the frost.The blood.

Her divinity rippled uselessly in the air, because she no longer controlled it. Her god pulled at her flesh like a puppeteer wearing a corpse. Yet her voice still roared through the ritual, warped and serrated:

"Come forth… the battle-field bleeds… so we feast and bind…"

The soil beneath the Ice Plains began to respond. Every battlefield around her, every drop of spilt life from ten thousand warriors who had died raving under her berserker oath—it remembered pain. And memory in this world was never passive.

Dead blood in the frozen ground liquified. Not as warm scarlet, but as a tar-thick, black-red ooze. It seeped upward in tendrils, drawn by her will. The very chemical salts and iron remnants of blood that had soaked into the earth writhed like worms remembering their bodies.

Then, in the keep around her, she turned upon her own castle servants—humans, loyal, terrified. She needed runic cores, vessels for the summoned flesh. Her eyes burned crimson, pupils gone entirely, replaced with rotating glyphs. And she spoke a command no mortal throat should ever form:

"Bleed for dominion."

The walls shook. The servants screamed, but only for a moment.

Their blood did not explode outward like gore.It drained from them as if pulled by a second heart.One beat.Two.Three.

Then every drop inside their bodies surged through their pores, tearing its way out through skin, eyes, gums, fingernails. It was not spurting, it was harvested, sucked into the air as a mist of liquified suffering.

Nearly one hundred eighty liters of living blood was ripped from their veins, swirling into the ritual circle like a hurricane of red smoke. Their bodies collapsed inward like collapsing puppets, skin sinking over bones, leaving only parchment-colored husks that cracked like dry leaves.

The stolen blood converged with the battlefield remnants. Red became darker—rusted, coagulated, a black-red liquid that twitched like muscle.

From that grotesque union, creatures began to form.

Not beasts.Not warriors.

Nightmares built from pain itself.

They crawled forth headfirst, limbs twisting wrong, bones forming from compressed iron salts, teeth forged of crystallized hemoglobin. Some had no faces. Some had too many mouths. Others dragged long veined tendrils across the floor like wet intestines that thought they were snakes.

Mardôll, no longer human, barely divine, smiled with a mangled serenity as the first abomination stood upright, its voice bubbling from its chest cavity rather than its mouth:

"Bind. Hunger. Obey."

Her army was not made of warriors. It was made of the realm's wounds.

Freydis had once believed blood could be ruled.Now, something far older was teaching her:

Blood does not obey.It devours.

And far beyond the Ice Plains, every warrior who had fought under Veridica discipline felt the air tighten, like a chain being forged around their soul.

The war for belief had begun to take shape.Now it would take flesh.