Chapter 224
Meanwhile , Far above the world's turmoil, beyond the newly tainted horizon where the Crimson Witch prepared her grotesque army, Daniel sat atop the Skjorn Peaks, an ancient crown of ice and unforgiving wind. From this high solitude, he watched the realm change like a wounded beast thrashing in a storm.
The letter he held trembled against the cold current. It spoke of Melgil staying with her parents, a temporary parting forced by circumstance. Strangely, the news did not sting him as one would expect. He simply accepted it, an inevitability, neither blessing nor tragedy. The path he chased now was larger than longing, and his heart understood that distance did not break what was forged in truth.
Nyx stood alongside him, still bound, their triplets existence confined to one shared physical form by the main toward law restrictions. They could not split into their autonomous bodies as they once did, yet they showed no resentment before their creator.
Their devotion was silent, unwavering, their presence like a shadow devoted to the flame that cast it. Daniel practiced his runic patterns away from prying eyes, etching invisible formulas across the air, honing a power he barely wished to reveal. The wind howled, and the clouds roiled with distant thunder, signs of gods reacting to mortal defiance.
Then, a new raven descended, landing upon the highest spire of rock where Daniel meditated. Its wings shook with exhaustion; frost clung to its feathers like shattered shards of night. The raven hesitated to look at him, trembling with instinctive fear of what his aura had become. But Daniel lifted his hand gently. "Come," he said, not as command, but invitation. The raven approached his feet, trembling still, and Nyx glared at it with feral protectiveness.
Daniel knelt, touching the bird's head with a symbol traced by fingertip alone—not rune, but intention manifested. "I grant you speech," he whispered. "You are no ordinary raven. You flew more than five thousand meters beyond what your kind should endure. You have earned a name." The raven tried to protest, humbly denying any greatness. "My lord, I was only given a task. I endure because I desire its reward." Daniel smiled faintly. "Even duty cannot replace will. Nevertheless, you endured." From his spatial storage, he took a strip of preserved meat and offered it. Nyx gasped aloud, shock breaking their usual stillness. "My lord—you can access your storage space? I thought the Restriction forbade all divine-tier abilities!" Daniel answered quietly, "The power they sealed is loosening. Slowly. I can access fragments of what I once wielded. But I choose not to rely on it. Not yet."
The raven bowed as it accepted the offering, now fed not by nature but by earned recognition. "Then accept a name," Daniel continued. "You are Huginn, Thought." The raven bowed deeper still, trembling not from fear but gratitude. "My lord… I have a sibling. The one who follows after me. Might you bless them too?" Daniel nodded once. "Share your story with me fully. Then send your sibling with the next message, and I will name them also." Huginn thanked him again and soared into the cold sky, meat clutched in its beak, wings ignited with new purpose.
Daniel unrolled the scroll Huginn delivered. The message spoke of the South finally accepting the Veridica Doctrine and adopting his Glíma training reforms. Word spread quickly: warriors from distant clans, blades still scarred from old rivalries, marched proudly to challenge this new philosophy. Even Jarl Ragnar Stormbreaker of the Central Kingdom and Jarl Astrid Skyrend, the Iron Shieldmaiden of the East, had welcomed the change. They proposed a grand tournament—conflicts settled not by raids or revenge, but by skill. A sacred arena to honor combat without war.
Daniel approved with one condition: "Allow me to join the fights," he wrote. "And let the arena be open to all, no bloodline, title, or creed denied entry." For strength meant nothing if it stood untested, and honor meant nothing if it was not earned. And on the Skjorn Peaks, the wind seemed to answer him like an old friend, promising that the world was about to remember what true combat meant.
Word reached Daniel not as rumor, but like a spear hurled across borders, carrying the weight of a shifting age. The South had declared loyalty to the Veridica Doctrine, and Glíma—once a boast of lineage, honor, and inherited skill, had begun to transform. It was no longer a tribal practice, nor a personal rite of strength; it was becoming a system, a philosophy built upon anatomy, timing, leverage, and ruthless precision.
Taught strength, not born strength. From the Ash Cliffs, the Drowned Hills, and the frost-cracked farmlands, warriors arrived like storms pulled toward a new gravitational center: men and women whose pride had been forged through clan bloodshed and reputation, who now crossed rivers and borderlands with one intention, to challenge the South's evolving doctrine, to break reason under instinct, to prove that technique could not surpass legacy. Yet another message came, heavier than travel, heavier than rivalry:
Ragnar Stormbreaker of the central plains and Astrid Skyrend of the eastern steel halls had accepted the new challenge as well. Two Jarls praised for their adherence to tradition now stood behind a public arena system, trial by open combat, where skill, not birthright, would decide the worth of a warrior. A council of clan leaders quarreled for hours over the implications, their voices swelling like thunder inside the hall of stone and smoke, until Eirunn Stormbreaker finally stood and spoke a single sentence that cracked the old order in half:
"If this tournament decides the worth of a doctrine, then let it include every soul who dares to fight. Not just clans. Not just nobles. All." The room fell silent. A disciple of runes and muscle, a scholar who shaped warfare with reason, asking to fight beside commoners, it shattered centuries of hierarchy. Ragnar Stormbreaker laughed first, a booming sound like iron hinges grinding against thunder.
"Good. Let those who obey the Doctrine meet the fists raised by pointless war." Astrid Skyrend, her spear resting by her throne like a silver fang ready to strike, nodded with a calm ferocity. "Open the gates. Let farmers, hunters, thralls, nobles, Jarls, and soulless brawlers enter. Let the world settle its disputes in the arena. Let the new doctrine bleed for its place." And the decree was sealed. Across the realm, caravans began to move, crowds forming into pilgrim-warriors; training halls forged techniques instead of steel, and old vendettas prepared to be resolved beneath open sky rather than in midnight ambushes. Yet as the people prepared to test the philosophy that might reshape their world,
Daniel felt something else shift as his Omni-Resonance skill can now be used at 50 percent , not in the politics, not in the pride of warriors, but in the air itself. The horizon had begun to change color, the sky streaked with rust-red and flesh-gray fog, as if the world itself was tasting blood and remembering hunger. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his gun blade, instincts sharpening into warning.
"Something unnatural is coming." He did not yet know that Mardôll's blood legion had begun to walk, that the land itself was coughing up war-spawned horrors in answer to forbidden runes—but the wind already whispered of it. And somewhere in the crimson north, deep beneath a fortress of ice, a castle screamed as its walls cracked like bone breaking under command.
The Frostfjord, a harsh expanse of crimson-streaked glaciers and relentless, howling storms, lay far to the north, a region both feared and revered. Its jagged ice cliffs and blood-tinted snowfields were said to mirror the cruelty of its rulers, and only the most hardy could traverse it without succumbing to frostbite or despair. From the central plains, a journey to this frozen wasteland demanded a month of grueling travel, whether by horse or carriage, across snow-choked passes, frozen rivers, and treacherous terrain that had claimed countless lives before. Stationed along the eastern border, Freydis the Crimson Witch had already positioned her ten thousand warriors like a living bulwark, a force sharpened by berserker potions and bound by blood-magic, in nearby settlements all over the edge of their known territory
But even this formidable host was constrained by the unforgiving geography; and mountain range that is know to host many creatures that thrive and live in the cold, a month of constant travel would be required to reach the lands governed by Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, the warlord whose iron grip and cunning had long kept the northern clans in line. Every pass, every frozen ridge, every icebound valley became a gauntlet for any force daring to cross, making strategy as vital as strength, and patience as deadly as any sword. The northern horizon remained distant, a scarlet line of snow and storm, as the Frostfjord waited silently, a cold sentinel to test the ambition and fury of those who would challenge it.
The Frostfjord's central stronghold rose like a jagged crown amid the endless snow, its walls carved into the volcanic mountains and interlaced with natural mountain passes that twisted like frozen arteries. Despite the bitter cold, nearly four thousand citizens called this place home, carving out existence in the layers of rock, ice, and molten veins that pulsed beneath the earth. Tunnels and caverns harnessed the warmth of geothermal activity, creating pockets of heat where markets, forges, and living quarters thrived, transforming the frozen wasteland into a subterranean metropolis.
Aboveground, volcanic peaks jutted skyward, their blackened stone scarred by rivers of lava long cooled, forming natural fortifications and pathways connecting the various tiers of the stronghold. Snow and ice blanketed the mountains like white armor, yet the city pulsed with life, a labyrinth of bridges, terraces, and carved halls where citizens moved between sunlight and subterranean warmth, trading, training, and preparing for the harsh seasons. Every alley, every cavern, every heat-lit chamber whispered the ingenuity of a people who had learned to thrive where nature's fury seemed absolute, and the Frostfjord city itself became both a fortress and a testament—a living, breathing testament to survival and resilience amid fire and ice.
The northern lands were not merely harsh, they were a crucible. Endless storms tore across the crimson glaciers, volcanic peaks belched ash into the wind, and the nights stretched long and merciless, testing every soul who dared call the north home. Yet from this brutal wilderness, Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, warlord of the North, had carved an empire unmatched in ambition and cunning.
The Frostfjord, with its towering central fortress and sprawling subterranean city of nearly four thousand souls, was not merely a stronghold, it was the beating heart of his vision, a base from which he could impose his will on all the surrounding lands. He walked its icy terraces, feeling the pulse of the volcanic mountains beneath his feet, the warmth from the underground veins resonating like the drumbeat of destiny itself. In the whispers of the wind through the jagged peaks, he heard the call of his ancestry: the blood of Vargrim, the Wolf of Hunger.
The legend of Vargrim, a lesser god of hunger and predation, was etched into the northern soil as deeply as the frost into stone. Vargrim was not merely a deity of brute force, but a predator of instinct and strategy, a being that demanded loyalty, cunning, and an unyielding drive to claim what it hungered for. From childhood,
Eirikr had been told that the wolf's blood flowed through his veins, shaping his fangs, his instincts, and his ambitions. Every conquest, every raid, every test of strength or will had been seen as a proving ground, a reflection of Vargrim's own predatory teachings. Where others saw cold and desolation, he saw opportunity; where others saw isolation, he saw dominion. He believed himself born not to defend his borders, but to claim the entire land, to bring every mountain, river, and city under the rule of the northern wolves, shaping the realm itself to mirror the insatiable hunger that defined him.
The Frostfjord city, with its labyrinth of heated caverns, its fortified terraces clinging to volcanic cliffs, and its labyrinthine tunnels connecting its subterranean layers, became a living symbol of his ambition. Here, he could train warriors in the ways of the hunt, sharpen minds as well as blades, and cultivate a force disciplined in both blood and strategy. His warriors, many of them descendants of clans who had survived centuries of famine, war, and predation, were indoctrinated not only in martial prowess but in the ruthless philosophy of Vargrim: hunger is not weakness, it is power; desire is not sin, it is the key to dominance; the strong do not wait, they claim.
Every night, as the storms howled across the Frostfjord peaks, Eirikr would stand at the edge of the highest volcanic ridge, eyes scanning the endless horizon, imagining his banners raised over every city, every clan, every plain. The whisper of the wind became a chorus to his conviction, and the bones of his forebears, warriors and hunters alike, seemed to pulse beneath the ice, affirming his claim. Even in the face of the rising Veridica Doctrine and the subtle but undeniable influence of Daniel Rothchester, Eirikr's belief in his destiny never wavered. He saw the chaos of the south as mere opportunity, and the fractured faith of the lesser gods as a sign that the northern wolves, guided by hunger, cunning, and divine blood, were fated to ascend.
In his mind, conquest was not ambition, it was inevitability. He would not merely survive the coming storms; he would thrive, feeding the hunger of Vargrim through each victory, each submission, each city that bent the knee. And as the crimson glaciers glittered beneath the aurora-streaked sky, Eirikr's heart burned with a singular, unshakable certainty: the North would not remain confined. The North would consume all
at the same time, The location for the grand tournament was carefully chosen, a deliberate space between the two great cities, roughly three hundred miles apart, equidistant enough to avoid favoring either side yet close enough to allow access through the ancient rune gate networks embedded in the sacred gathering halls of both cities. These gates, protected and revered for generations, were accessible only to the most loyal members of the united war clans, their presence ensuring that no outsider could slip in unnoticed. From these gates, messages, supplies, and even small groups of warriors could traverse the distance in days rather than weeks, their movements hidden from prying eyes, a quiet network of passage beneath the eyes of the wary Jarls.
To accommodate the unprecedented scale of the tournament, workers, summoned from surrounding villages and guided by experienced planners from both cities, were tasked with constructing a massive arena in the open central plains, roughly 150 miles from either city, a neutral ground where the spectacle of combat could unfold unimpeded. The plain itself, once a rolling expanse of grass and sparse woodlands, began to transform almost immediately.
Within three months, the settlement surrounding the central fortress of Storm Skjorn Fjord, which had once held a modest population of three thousand, swelled to twenty thousand as people who had long hidden in shadow or exile now emerged to witness, participate, or stake claims in the growing city. The expansion was not chaotic, however; governance was delegated to two trusted lesser clan leaders,
Varrik Stonejaw Thryn and Eldra Ironveil, who oversaw the rapid organization of markets, barracks, training grounds, and civic structures. Meanwhile, the remaining two leaders established small residential clusters for their relatives, located just fifty meters outside the city walls, blending protection with proximity. The surge of population and activity in Storm Skjorn Fjord did not go unnoticed by the eastern city of Skardal Flats. There, the Skyrend clan watched as their own modest city of 2,800 expanded to over 9,000 within the same period.
Small outlying settlements sprouted roughly one hundred meters from the main city walls, each patch a new home for the families of warriors, traders, and artisans drawn by the promise of opportunity and the impending tournament. The transformation of the central plains into a living, breathing hub of activity was cinematic in scale: tents, training yards, market stalls, and watchtowers stretched across the land, while the newly constructed arena rose like a sentinel at its heart, stone and wood hewn into terraces, colonnades, and vantage points, ready to witness the convergence of thousands of fighters.
From the horizon, the sight was almost unreal, a patchwork of human ambition, clan banners flapping in the wind, and the distant glimmer of rune gates casting faint, pulsating light across the sprawling settlement. It was a place of tension and potential, a stage where old rivalries would collide with new philosophies, where discipline would confront chaos, and where the future of the realm itself would begin to take shape under the watchful eyes of those who had dared to unify it.
The construction of the battle arena itself became a spectacle, a monumental effort that drew craftsmen, laborers, and architects from both cities and every allied settlement along the central plain. Stone was quarried from the nearby ridges, timber brought down from the northern forests, and metalwork, gates, railings, and the intricate mechanisms of the seating terraces—was forged in the forges of the lesser clans. Workers labored under the constant supervision of military engineers, ensuring not only stability but strategic visibility: vantage points for judges, observation towers for scholars of martial arts, and spaces reserved for ceremonial displays. The arena was designed not merely as a coliseum, but as a living classroom, a space where combat, philosophy, and human ingenuity could converge.
As the structure rose, martial arts schools from across the land began sending their representatives, eager to demonstrate their craft and stake a claim in the coming tournament. From the snow-swept reaches of the northern frostlands came practitioners of the Rimehand style, their movements sharp and precise, honed in freezing conditions that demanded both endurance and adaptability. From the eastern steel halls, masters of the Spear-Fang technique arrived, their fluid strikes and spinning forms reflecting generations of training in open plains and fortified halls. The southern clans brought their hybrid systems, a fusion of close-combat wrestling, grappling, and long-range blade maneuvers, tempered by practical knowledge of battlefield conditions. Even the distant skald-born from the western highlands contributed, performing acrobatics intertwined with runic-infused strikes, their motions echoing both tradition and subtle innovation.
None of these schools were bound by rigid dogma; the Netherborn had never imposed rules on the creation of martial arts. The only mandate was that every technique adhered to the principles of discipline, incremental mastery, and constant refinement. Innovation was not only allowed but encouraged, provided it served the higher purpose of refining skill, strengthening mind and body, and breaking the practitioner's limits without descending into recklessness or cruelty. Each school had its own interpretation, but all shared the same core: combat was a living philosophy, not mere bloodshed. Teachers, masters, and adepts alike understood that their innovations would be tested on the central plain, under the eyes of the most skilled observers and the fiercest competitors.
As the weeks passed, the arena became a hive of activity: instructors led intense training sessions, students sparred under the supervision of veteran fighters, and innovations in footwork, grappling, and Seiðr-enhanced techniques were trialed in miniature scrimmages. Each school sought not only to display its own prowess but to learn from others, borrowing, adjusting, and evolving styles that aligned with the Netherborn principles. It was a living crucible of martial philosophy: a place where skill could be refined, limits could be pushed, and new schools of thought could emerge from the collision of tradition and invention.
By the time the arena's terraces were fully completed, the central plain had transformed from an empty expanse into a sprawling academy of combat. Temporary training grounds sprawled like veins around the main arena, tents of different colors marking each school's presence, and the rhythmic clash of sparring weapons echoed day and night. From high observation towers, veteran instructors noted flaws, guided students, and ensured that the evolving techniques stayed true to the tenets of the Netherborn: precise action, disciplined growth, and measured progression beyond natural limits.
This convergence of martial cultures, all following the unyielding philosophy of discipline and evolution, created an electric atmosphere. Every motion, every clash, and every kata performed was both a test and a teaching moment. In the midst of it, the arena itself seemed to hum with anticipation, as if the plain, the stone terraces, and the rune gates themselves were aware that the coming tournament was not merely a contest of skill but the beginning of a new era—a place where combat would define philosophy, philosophy would define culture, and culture would determine the future of the realm.
The stage was set. The arena was alive. And every participant, from fledgling student to seasoned master, understood that on this plain, the legacy of the Netherborn would be both honored and challenged in ways that would ripple across the lands for generations.
From his vantage above the jagged Skjorn Peaks, Daniel surveyed the sprawling central plains below with a calm, almost clinical detachment, yet a fire of anticipation burned quietly in his chest. His mastery of fire and lightning, honed over countless trials and battles, had reached a point where spellcasting had become instinct rather than deliberate effort. The rune spell he had painstakingly forged had fully matured within him, embedded in the very fibers of his void armor.
No longer did he need to cast symbols or channel energy outward, the armor itself became the manifestation of his will, a living conduit that translated thought directly into chaotic elemental precision. He watched the arena preparations and the disciplined chaos of the martial schools with a quiet amusement, recalling the days when he fought with nothing but his skill, relying on the raw physicality of body and mind rather than the unrelenting surge of chaos energy.
The rules of the Second Floor had always been constraining, carefully designed to level the playing field. Combatants were allowed eighty percent melee and only twenty percent energy usage, a strict balance meant to prevent an untested mortal from being overwhelmed by the raw destructive potential of chaotic mana. Daniel understood the necessity of such restrictions, having once been a participant under the same limitations, and he respected their fairness for the majority. Most players barely reached ten thousand mana points.
But he was different, his evolution was neither linear nor predictable. Chaos and order had shaped him in ways that even the old gods found vexing; his presence was an irritation to them, a living anomaly that refused to fit neatly within their structures. Sigma, the ever-watchful Administrator of the Tower, recognized the same potential, knowing that the two lesser gods had intentions to make the Second Floor far more entertaining than the elders anticipated.
Yet the security protocols, carefully patched over decades, ensured that no unchecked interference from Administrators, or rogue Netherborn, could upset the delicate balance of sanctioned events. These safeguards were a monumental expenditure of divine oversight, yet the old gods insisted, blinded by pride, unable to see the larger pattern: they were nothing more than abstract representations of chaos and order, parading as endless absolutes while oblivious to the very forces they sought to control.
Daniel, however, felt no burden to conform. While his beloved Melgil remained at Rothchester, attending to her own growing responsibilities and the unspoken weight of her pregnancy, he yearned for the thrill of the hunt and the pulse of living among mortals once more. Here, on the central plain, he could test observation, strategy, and skill without exposing the full extent of his Netherborn identity. Only a handful of people had glimpsed his human form; only a select few truly knew who he was. Descending from the jagged peaks, Daniel allowed his figure to melt into the throng, unrecognized and yet fully aware of every motion, every calculation, every potential advantage.
As he climbed down, he felt the familiar hum of elemental energy coursing through him, fire flickering along his veins, lightning rippling beneath his skin, void armor thrumming in resonance with both. The air around him responded to his presence subtly: dust and loose stones rose in currents as if aware of his motion, the distant banners fluttered slightly more violently, and the faint taste of ozone and ash clung to the breeze. It was as if the arena itself, and perhaps the central plain itself, recognized the shift in the balance of power, though no one else could see it.
Blending seamlessly with the throngs of fighters, instructors, and spectators, Daniel observed every school, every style, every nuance of technique being displayed. He noted innovations in grappling, the subtle integration of Seiðr into martial routines, and the disciplined cadence of students following the principles of the Netherborn,discipline, constant training, and the relentless breaking of limits. The schools did not yet know it, but every action they performed was under the silent gaze of one who had transcended their understanding of combat.
With a subtle smile, Daniel adjusted his void armor to the flow of his movements and allowed himself to step fully into the arena space. He would not announce himself, would not flaunt power, he would participate as one among many, yet every maneuver, every calculated strike, every measured step would be a testament to the evolution he embodied. The festival of combat, the grand tournament, had begun. And above the clamor, above the disciplined chaos and anticipation, a silent storm of fire and lightning trailed behind him, unseen, waiting for the precise moment to remind the Second Floor why the Netherborn's presence was a force no doctrine could ignore.
If he chose to, Daniel could change the outcome of every duel, rewrite the narrative of every clash, and reshape the perception of power itself. Yet he would wait, watch, and measure, because even in anonymity, even beneath the scrutiny of gods and men alike, the thrill of observation, of learning, of bending limits, was far sweeter than spectacle alone.
The central plain was alive. The arena was alive. And Daniel Rothchester, Netherborn, master of fire, lightning, and chaos, had just arrived.
As the first month of the tournament drew to a close, the central plain had become a tapestry of banners, colors, and martial pride. Schools from every corner of the realm—ancient lineages of Glíma practitioners, obscure Seiðr combat academies, and newly founded martial clans inspired by the Veridica Doctrine, arrived to claim their place. Each group carried insignia, sigils, and totems that represented not just their style, but their philosophy and honor. Some displayed intricate knotwork carved into shields, others fluttered delicate silk banners embroidered with runic symbols of discipline and strength, and a few even paraded living totems or mechanical constructs built to demonstrate the pinnacle of their technique.
The arena grounds, once barren, were now alive with hundreds of tents, training yards, and practice circles where students sparred tirelessly under the watchful eyes of masters. Every clash, every flourish, and every stance reinforced the central theme of the tournament: innovation bound to rigorous discipline.
The Netherborn doctrine had set no rigid rules on innovation, styles could evolve, adapt, and even merge, but the foundation was immutable: training, discipline, and the relentless pursuit of breaking one's limits.
Far to the north, however, a far darker tide stirred. Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, warlord of the North and scion of the wolf god Vargrim, surveyed the Frostfjord from the highest tower of his volcanic citadel. The jagged peaks around his stronghold roared with storms, but the storms inside him were far fiercer. After centuries of preparation, he unleashed the first phase of his campaign: three million undead warriors, Draugr risen from frozen crypts, and the grotesque, horse-headed Nuckelavee bred in secret abysses, marched in disciplined ranks toward the central plain. Eirikr's intent was clear: the arena,
where thousands of the realm's most skilled fighters were now gathering, presented the perfect opportunity to crush his competition. The unification of the east and central plains under one banner, combined with whispers from the west of excitement and interest in the grand tournament, only confirmed to him that this was the ideal moment to eliminate potential threats to his war campaign. By letting these powerful clans clash first, he could strike decisively and claim supremacy over the entire region.
Among those caught in the tides of this looming chaos, Altan Khödan of the Golden Bull of the Steppe had a more personal vendetta. He had spent months nursing his rage toward a crippled woman who had taken his fighting hand in a previous confrontation.
While the majority of the western clans hesitated to confront the eastern and central coalition directly, outnumbered and strategically disadvantaged, Altan focused solely on the one target he believed he could kill. Yet fate and intervention had already turned against him: the woman who had once been crippled now moved with lethal precision.
The northern winds howled like wolves mourning death as Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane stood atop the obsidian ramparts of Frostfjord. Below him, the glaciers cracked open like splitting bone, exposing rivers of crimson ice. Those veins pulsed like organs beneath the earth, and from their caverns emerged his army, three million undead, half-frozen and bound by forged runes older than kings.
Draugr marched with spears fused into bone, their shields riveted to frost-seared flesh. Nuckelavee trampled forward, flayed skin sticking to their mutilated riders like lovers clinging to corpses. Frost wraiths glided between them like specters of war, their breath turning air into death. Their eyes glowed sickly blue, pulsing like starving hearts.
Eirikr's cloak of wolf pelts billowed behind him as he pressed a blood-soaked hand against the sigil of Vargrim, Lesser God of Hunger and Greed, burnt into his chest. The mark writhed like a living parasite, drinking from his veins.
"They gather like sheep for a festival," he growled, gaze turning south. "A tournament of glory? Hah. A pen of slaughter."
The moon glinted off his fangs, real, hereditary, born of his clan's ancient curse. Eirikr sniffed the air, as though smelling prey across miles. "I will cull the strong. I will feed their bones to Vargrim. I will claim this land as his feast."
His war priestess, Thranja Skull-Chanter, stepped from behind a pillar of frozen ribs that formed a shrine to their god. Bone beads rattled around her neck like loose teeth. Her eyes shimmered with madness. "You seek conquest, my Jarl. But conquest draws enemies. What do you fear?"
Eirikr laughed, a sound like an avalanche consuming a village.
"Fear? I fear only an empty empire."
He raised his hand, and the runic chains restraining the army shattered with a sound like breaking stars. The undead surged as the tundra split beneath the force of their march. Snow evaporated. The frozen rivers churned red. The world recoiled at his approach.
"We march south," he commanded.
And the North obeyed.
Far from the northern blight, where banners waved like colorful flames across the central plains, the newly built Grand Arena of Skarnhold flourished. Thousands of tents crowded its walls, a living hive of ambition. Merchant wagons rattled through mud and stone. Rune lanterns hummed with arcane sparks. Vendors roasted beast organs on skewers and sold salves promising "victory in three sips or your death avenged."
Warriors from every direction boasted, bargained, and brawled. Dozens of martial schools displayed their insignias, Water-Fang Glíma, Iron-Root Holds, Hollow Palm Seiðr-Wrestlers, Thunder-Hand Grapplers, even foreign Stygian blade-dancers whose feet barely touched the earth when they moved.
Through this storm of ego walked a man in a simple cloak, hood low, face shadowed. Daniel. No Netherborn aura. No Void armor. Just the gait of someone intentionally forgettable.
At the registration hall, three brutish fighters blocked the doorway. Their armor was patchwork iron, their weapons scarred but deadly.
"Oi!" barked the leader, a mountain missing half an ear. "Queue's for real contenders. Not stray beggars."
Daniel offered a polite smile. "Then I'll just take one entry form, if you don't mind."
The mountain shoved him lightly, more insult than attack. "The form costs four silver—and your pride. Got either?"
Daniel shrugged. "Just the silver." He paid exactly four coins.
The ruffians burst out laughing.
"What's your style then, eh?" sneered the third. "Running away?"
Daniel nodded thoughtfully. "Something like that."
The registrar stamped the parchment lazily. "Name?"
Daniel paused. "…You can write whatever you want."
The registrar gave a bored shrug. "Anonymous. Good luck staying alive, Anonymous."
As Daniel walked away, merchants muttered:
"Who joins without a school emblem?"
"Maybe he's hiding his technique."
"Or maybe he's never trained a day in his life."
At a weapons stall, a smith slammed a massive axe into Daniel's hands. "Good weight, stranger. Made for cracking ribs like firewood."
Daniel tested the balance gently, then shook his head. "Too loud."
"Loud?" the smith scoffed. "What, you planning to tickle your enemies?"
Daniel selected the smallest dagger on the table, more a sliver of metal than a weapon. As soon as he touched it, the blade sang, a vibration, faint and clear, as if recognizing him.
Daniel smiled slightly.
"It remembers… something."
He set it down and walked on.
The smith stared after him, unsettled. "Who in all nine realms fights with something that small?"
Across the arena's western encampment, fur tents pitched like a stubborn island of tradition, Altan Khödan of the Golden Bull crushed a drinking horn in his fist. Fermented mare's milk splattered across his chest. His bellow of rage nearly shook the stakes from the earth.
He was watching Eirunn Stormbreaker train. Watching her new mechanical leg turn, pivot, and strike with fluid brutality.
"That cripple was meant to crawl for life," he snarled.
A war captain swallowed. "Killing is forbidden during the tournament, Khödan…"
Altan stood, the veins in his arms bulging like braided rope. "Laws are for weaklings who fear their gods."
Another captain risked speaking. "If you attack her, the east and central clans will unite against us."
"I don't care." Altan's glare was primal, hungry. "I will kill her before she kills my reputation."
He watched Eirunn perform a flawless spinning kick that cracked the training post in half.
"That metal limb," he hissed, "that artificial witch-steel… It mocks the old ways. It mocks strength earned through pain. I'll tear it off her corpse and wear it as a trophy."
Two merchants overheard from behind a canvas flap. They rushed away whispering:
"The Bull plans to break the rules."
"He'll bring blood before the games even start."
"Good for business," one muttered, pale with dread.
"But bad for the world."
The first town to stand in the path of Eirikr Bloodmane's horde was Lornhollow, a humble settlement nestled between steaming vents and snow-choked hills. Its people were hunters, miners, and trappers, hardy, stubborn, fiercely loyal to the North. They had no banners, no martial schools, no blessed champions.
They had only doors barred against the cold.
The undead arrived at dawn, though dawn came slowly in Frostfjord, the sky sickly pale as if too afraid to shine upon the horror below. A blizzard rolled in with the army, drowning sound. The snowfall came thick, so thick that the sentries on the wooden palisades barely noticed the shifting shadows crawling over the ice.
Then the shadows opened their jaws.
The Draugr struck without war cries, without sound. No clashing shields. No roars. No drums. Just the hiss of tearing flesh beneath falling snow.
Families ran. Doors splintered. Lights extinguished beneath pale claws. Frost wraiths drifted into homes like cold breath, freezing screams in throats before voices could escape. Nuckelavee galloped through the narrow streets, their flayed torsos shrieking through skull-mouths, dragging chains that hooked into flesh and dragged survivors out like hunted game.
Not a single blow of resistance mattered. Steel shattered against ice-bound bone. Arrows cracked. Fire sputtered and died.
The massacre lasted three minutes.
It left no survivors.
And in that quiet, with the blizzard still howling like mourning spirits, Eirikr walked through the ruins, boots crunching on frost-hardened corpses. Thranja Skull-Chanter followed, her bone staff dripping crimson slush.
She spoke softly."Are you satisfied, my Jarl? A town of children and trappers. No warriors to cull. No champions to feed your god."
Eirikr gazed upon the dead, throat rumbling with approval."They ran. The weak should run. Let them flee south, let them carry terror behind their eyes."
He knelt and slammed his hand into the ice. Runes flared like starving mouths across the bodies. The dead convulsed, bones gnashing, hands twitching. Flesh knit with sinew of ice. The fallen rose one by one, eyes ignited with cold hunger.
Lornhollow's people joined the march.
Another voice rose behind him—an undead throat gasping words of worship. A fallen town elder, still wearing his fur cloak, now bound by runic chains. His voice was a wet rattle:"Wh-w-we answer… Vargrim's call…"
Eirikr laughed."You answer mine."
He stood, cloak billowing, watching as the new undead blended into the massive wave of corpses stretching across the tundra.
Three million… now three million and counting.
Snow melted where they walked, scorched by necrotic heat. The land cracked behind them, as though the world were trying to split and hide from their march. Wolves fled their dens. Birds fell dead from the air. Even blizzards seemed to pull away from their path, leaving only a long corridor of death pointing south.
Pointing toward the Central East, Toward the Grand Arena.
Thranja whispered to him as they marched."You go to kill warriors… when the gods have already given you an army of corpses. Why bother with the living?"
Eirikr smiled, showing his wolf-fang lineage."The dead obey. But only the living… defy."His eyes gleamed with savage delight."I want warriors who scream. I want their will crushed beneath me. Those who kneel—those who resist—those who devour the world instead of starving for it. I will hunt them. And those who survive my culling shall become my generals."
His voice rolled like thunder across the tundra:"Let the tournament gather every strong fool in the realm. Vargrim demands a feast of strength."
The undead roared—not with voices, but with the trembling of the earth itself.
The sky grew darker.
And Eirikr marched on, unstoppable, toward a world that still had no idea death was already on its way.
The Grand Arena of United War clans was alive with anticipation, the air thick with the scents of forge smoke, sweat, and anticipation. From every corner of the realm, nearly five hundred warriors had converged, representing every school, creed, and style imaginable. The registration tents had long since overflowed, and the central plain surrounding the arena was now a patchwork of training grounds, sparring rings, and demonstration platforms.
The organizers, overwhelmed by the sheer turnout, had to devise a system to separate the competent from the untested, the experienced from the eager. The solution: the qualifying round, a brutal, high-stakes trial designed not merely to judge skill, but to reveal the character, endurance, and innovation of each fighter. Each bout would feature twenty participants at a time, fighting within a circular arena of packed earth, roughly forty meters in diameter, surrounded by elevated terraces for referees, scribes, and observers.
The rules were strict yet fair: no killing allowed, strikes aimed to maim or incapacitate were forbidden, magic and energy use were limited to twenty percent of total combat output, the remainder to be resolved through melee and traditional techniques. Brawlers would earn points not merely for landing hits, but for strategy, control of the arena, adaptability, and the execution of unique forms, while unsportsmanlike conduct would result in immediate disqualification. The goal was to trim the ranks efficiently, cutting nearly half of the warriors from the tournament before the next round.
As the first qualifying match was called, a hush fell over the crowd, broken only by the wind whipping against the stone walls and the distant faint echo of drums signaling the start. Eirunn Stormbreaker, stepping into the arena for the first time, felt the weight of countless eyes upon her, yet the new exoskeleton under her armor hummed softly, the runes pulsing in harmony with her Seiðr flow.
Around her, the nineteen other combatants, fierce men and women from every corner of the realm, adjusted their stances, each attempting to size up the field, each wary of the unexpected. Eirunn's mind cleared, her breathing steady. She remembered the recent victory against Freydis's berserkers, the blood spilled and lives saved, and the exhilaration of reclaiming mobility she had long been denied.
Her first step onto the arena floor was met with a ripple of murmurs—some questioning the cripple who now walked unassisted, some in awe at the precision and confidence in her movement. When the signal horn sounded, the twenty warriors exploded into action simultaneously, a storm of strikes, parries, dodges, and flashing energy.
Eirunn moved with unerring precision, weaving between assailants, redirecting attacks, and delivering measured counters that carried not only force, but elegance, a choreography of deadly grace. Her friends in the stands, including Arvid, Sigrid, Harald, and Eira, leaned forward, fists clenched, eyes wide as she danced through the onslaught. Sparks flew as swords met metal, and the dust of the arena kicked up around her, creating a haze that seemed almost otherworldly. One by one, competitors fell back, their confidence shattered by her flawless integration of martial skill and enhanced mobility, while others pressed forward,
testing her limits. The scorers, scribes, and rune-sealed observers tracked every movement, every calculated strike, every subtle feint, as points accumulated and reputations solidified. By the time the round ended, only ten participants remained, the rest bowed or backed off in acknowledgment of defeat or were cut due to infractions or lack of proficiency.
Eirunn stood at the center, chest heaving, eyes alight with exhilaration, the first official victory of her tournament journey marking her not merely as a survivor, but as a warrior reborn. The crowd erupted, a thunderous chorus of awe and approval, the echoes of which rolled across the central plain, carrying a warning and a promise: the tournament had begun, and already, legends were being forged.
The second round of the qualifiers began under a blood-orange dawn, the arena now buzzing with heightened tension. Twenty warriors were called forth once more, their armor clanking, weapons raised, and eyes sharp with anticipation. Among them, Daniel appeared almost unremarkable—a simple cloak, hood drawn, and a single dagger gripped lightly in his right hand. No runes glowed along its edge, no chaotic energy whispered through the air.
Yet as the horn blared, he moved, and every doubt dissipated. He slipped into the center of the arena like water, flowing, unpredictable. The first assailant lunged with a spear, a seasoned fighter from the Ash Cliffs, but Daniel pivoted, the dagger flicking in a fluid arc that grazed the man's armor, redirecting the momentum so the attacker stumbled past him.
A crossbow bolt whistled from the side, and Daniel's body folded with a twisting, rolling motion that seemed almost impossible; the blade never left his grasp, guiding the attacker past him while simultaneously countering the strike from a short sword wielded by a warrior from the Drowned Hills. Every movement, step, dodge, counter, feint, was precise, a deadly dance of anticipation and reaction, not relying on raw strength or brute force, but on timing, leverage, and the subtle exploitation of openings.
Those in the crowd familiar with advanced martial arts gasped, whispers spreading like wildfire. "Is that… could it be… Daniel?" one elder fighter murmured, hand gripping a spear tight enough to whiten knuckles. "It has to be," replied another, eyes wide,
"look at the footwork, the angles, only someone trained beyond mortal technique could move like that." Ragnar Stormbreaker, observing from a separate elevated stand as his own category prepared, leaned forward, eyes narrowing beneath furrowed brows. His lips moved in a mutter only he could hear.
"Restraining… still restraining, even here," he said quietly. "Hersir… he must have a reason." Behind him, a few of Daniel's former pupils, now scattered across different clans and observing in awe, remained silent, understanding the calculus hidden behind Daniel's restraint.
"He fights this way," one whispered to another, "to measure, to study, to preserve… it's never about winning outright. Every motion is deliberate, yet every flaw he allows is for learning. Only he knows why."
The battle raged, strikes slashing through the air, warriors tumbling in a mix of brute force and desperation, but Daniel flowed through them, a phantom dagger dancing at the edge of perception, landing precise, non-lethal strikes that incapacitated without unnecessary harm. His style was a synthesis of all he had learned, a bridge between past training and what the next stage of martial mastery demanded, a style so advanced it seemed to bend physics in the eyes of those who watched closely.
As the horn finally sounded for the end of the round, Daniel stood at the center of the arena, unscathed, surrounded by opponents either subdued or bowing in acknowledgment of his skill. The crowd erupted in disbelief and awe; even those unaware of his identity felt the weight of something beyond mere mortal training.
Ragnar clenched his fists, teeth grinding. "One day," he murmured, "I will fight him again. But not here, not now… there is a reason he holds back, a reason he walks among mortals like this." And for those who had trained under Daniel before, the reasoning was clear:
Hersir Daniel never revealed the full measure of his strength unless it served a purpose greater than the immediate fight, he tested, he taught, he guided outcomes, and he moved as though every battle was a lesson for the world, not a simple contest of dominance.
The moment the second round commenced, Daniel moved like a shadow across the arena, every step and strike measured, deliberate, almost imperceptible in its grace. The twenty opponents approached, each representing different schools from across the realm, their weapons varied, spears, axes, longswords, and curved blades, but none could land a true strike. Daniel flowed between them, his dagger a mere extension of his body, parrying, deflecting, redirecting each attack with fluid arcs that seemed more dance than combat.
One by one, he disarmed or incapacitated his opponents, never delivering a killing blow, yet leaving each utterly defeated. The spectators gasped, murmur spreading like wildfire: "How… how is he moving like that?" "He's controlling them… controlling the battlefield itself…" Those trained in his basic martial arts style watched carefully, each instinctively recognizing the subtle mastery in his movements.
They remembered the bruises, the pressure, the unyielding precision when they had sparred with him before, and a ripple of awe ran through them. Each time a warrior fell, Daniel extended a hand, steady and calm, pulling them upright and offering a single correction, a tweak of the wrist, a shift of stance, a subtle angle adjustment that immediately improved their form. His pupils, five hundred strong hidden among the crowd, whispered among themselves, eyes alight with eagerness.
"See? There, the pivot… he's showing another way to use the wrist alignment for leverage," one muttered, pointing as Daniel redirected a strike that could have cleaved an opponent in two. Another nodded, breath caught. "The way he steps… it's subtle, but it changes everything. The timing, the angle, the force."
Even the competitors, those officially in the fight, felt a strange exhilaration, a hunger to prove they had not wasted the months of training since their last encounter with their mentor. Daniel, sensing their intent, deliberately showcased a new form of movement, a flowing technique blending deception, momentum, and misdirection, that none had yet mastered.
His dagger sliced, feinted, and rolled through impossible trajectories, every action reinforcing the core principle he had instilled in them: control, adaptation, and disciplined creativity. Spectators watched as though entranced, five thousand of them held their collective breath, marveling at the spectacle, oblivious that hundreds in the crowd were his students, learning once more at the side of the master who had shaped their very essence.
The arena itself, carved with rune symbols and reinforced by Siglorr's expert hands, seemed to hum and shiver under his presence, as if aware that such power and precision demanded it. With each strike, Daniel left a lesson etched into every eye and mind, his quiet corrections, his effortless maneuvers, teaching not through words but through motion.
By the time the round ended, the twenty warriors were systematically subdued, their faces a mixture of fatigue, awe, and the dawning realization that they had just faced something beyond conventional skill. Daniel stood at the center, dagger lowered, calm and composed, yet radiating an authority that needed no proclamation. T
he murmurs grew louder. "He didn't just win… he taught them all in the process." "Every strike… a lesson… every motion… a correction…" The students in the stands cheered silently among themselves, hands clenched, fists raised, not for victory, but for knowledge. The tournament had become a classroom, the arena a living temple of mastery, and Daniel, as always, had orchestrated it all with the quiet grace of one who both commanded and nurtured the very essence of martial skill. Even the crowd, unaware of the deeper significance, could feel the weight of greatness unfold before them, a reminder that true mastery was never about domination, it was about guidance, growth, and the relentless pursuit of perfection.
The tension in the Grand Arena had reached a nearly tangible weight, pressing down on every spectator as Daniel stood at its center, unarmed and still, exuding a calm that belied the storm of combat about to unfold. Nineteen warriors, the finest he and Melgil had personally trained, stood poised around him like a living constellation of discipline and lethal intent. Their eyes glimmered with a mixture of anticipation, respect, and the unspoken fear that comes with facing a master who had taught them the very principles they now sought to apply. Arvid Raskir, massive and poised with his war axe, cracked his knuckles. Sigrid Ironveil's longsword gleamed sharply, catching the sunlight in a precise, cruel reflection. Harald Thryne's shielded stance radiated resilience, a brick wall of disciplined training. Eira Valsmir, nimble and sharp, readied herself with the anticipation of a healer now turned tactician, and Eirunn Stormbreaker, newly reborn in strength and spirit, dagger in hand, balanced her feet with a warrior's grace, the exoskeleton around her legs humming with subtle power. The six Veridica warriors behind them bowed, a silent acknowledgment of Daniel's authority, their respect profound and unwavering.
The arena itself seemed alive, its runic foundations humming faintly beneath the fighters' feet, Siglorr's construction designed to withstand every conceivable force Daniel could bring. The stands were packed with nearly five thousand spectators, including a hidden cadre of five hundred of Daniel's own trainees, their eyes wide, breath caught in anticipation, hearts racing at the thought of witnessing their master unleash the full scope of his skill. Whispers of disbelief ran like wildfire. "Is it really him?" one asked. "Could the Hersir himself be fighting here?" "Look at his stance… the subtle shift of his weight… this isn't just skill, it's the next evolution of combat," murmured another, the words trembling in awe.
Then, like the quiet before a storm, the first challenger moved. Arvid Raskir lunged with the heavy axe, intending to overwhelm with brute force. Daniel's body flowed, twisting and dipping as if he were water, slipping past the lethal arc. With a fluid elbow strike to Arvid's spine, he redirected the warrior's momentum, sending him sprawling forward in a controlled fall. Before Arvid could even recover, Daniel's leg swept low, tapping Sigrid Ironveil's shin just enough to disturb her balance, causing the longsword to clang against the stone with a sound that drew gasps from the crowd. Harald Thryne's assault followed, a charging wall of shield and shortsword, but Daniel slid beneath the shield in a smooth, twisting motion, using the shorter man's own momentum to send him rolling across the sand. Eira Valsmir attempted a side strike, nimble and precise, but Daniel's torso rotated in perfect timing to absorb and redirect the force, leaving her momentarily stunned but unharmed.
Each movement was deliberate, seamless, a choreography of devastating precision. Elbows snapped, knees struck, palms deflected, hips rotated in perfect arcs, and yet, not one strike carried malice. Every opponent fell only to rise again, guided by Daniel's extended hand, murmurs of instruction following each tactical maneuver: "Lower your center of gravity… feel the rotation… redirect energy, not resist it… keep your balance…" It was a display of control that transcended combat—he was not merely defeating them, he was teaching them.
Eirunn Stormbreaker, dagger flashing, launched herself with renewed vigor, each lunge and spin a test of her restored body and honed skill. Daniel responded not with weapon but with his body alone. A spin of his hips, a tap of a knee, a shift in stance—the blows were precise, the redirection subtle, yet effective. She stumbled only briefly, quickly regaining her footing, her eyes widening as she recognized the layers of technique unfolding before her. Daniel moved with such fluidity, each strike a waveform of power and intention, that even the most experienced observers felt their understanding of combat stretched and challenged.
The remaining Veridica warriors fared no differently. Some were swept off their feet with subtle legwork, others felt the precise redirection of force, all controlled, all conscious of the lesson rather than the defeat. Each rise was met with guidance, every stagger an opportunity to internalize mastery. The spectators watched, breathless, as the arena became a living classroom. Daniel's movements were not merely skill—they were doctrine, physics, and intuition made manifest. His body became the ultimate weapon, a proof that combat was as much about mind and awareness as it was about physical strength.
By the time the last of the warriors fell into a respectful bow, the arena was silent for a heartbeat, then erupted into stunned applause. Sweat glistened on brows and armor, muscles quivered with exertion, and hearts pounded with exhilaration and reverence. Arvid, Sigrid, Harald, Eira, Eirunn, and the others met Daniel's gaze, no longer challengers but disciples in awe, understanding fully the unspoken message: this was the next step, the evolution beyond blades, beyond strength—a discipline where the body itself became weapon, shield, and guide.
From the stands, whispers ran rampant. "He's showing them the ultimate form of martial arts…" "Even Eirunn… she will never be the same after this…" Eyes gleamed, hearts quickened, and in the hidden rows of Daniel's students, fingers clenched and jaws tightened as they mentally etched every subtle shift of weight, every rotation of the hip, every imperceptible movement. Even seasoned combatants in the arena who had once sparred with him felt their pulse quicken at the realization of the precision and power on display. Daniel, calm, collected, unarmed, radiated an authority beyond weapon, beyond school, beyond expectation—a mastery that left all who watched knowing they were witnessing something transcendent, something no mere tournament could ever measure: the living embodiment of the Netherborn ideal, the ultimate integration of body, mind, and spirit.
The Grand Arena trembled almost imperceptibly as Ragnar Stormbreaker descended from the stands, the weight of his presence alone drawing a hush over the crowd. His cloak whipped in the wind, war axe slung over his shoulder, eyes burning with a rare, unrestrained fervor. All thoughts of titles, of Jarl and governance, evaporated in the heat of anticipation. Today, he would spar with Daniel, not as ruler, but as a warrior hungry for the ultimate challenge. The murmurs in the arena spiked to fever pitch. Thousands of spectators leaned forward in their seats, some craning necks to see what would happen when a Jarl laid aside all restraint to face the living embodiment of the "body-as-weapon."
Daniel stood perfectly still, his hood fallen back, his form relaxed yet radiating tension, like a coiled spring. He had anticipated this moment. Ragnar was not an ordinary opponent. Daniel knew the familiar fire in his friend's eyes, the controlled aggression honed over years, yet untempered by restraint. The audience sensed it too: the duel about to unfold would surpass anything the tournament had yet offered.
Without warning, Ragnar charged, war axe raised high, aiming to cleave Daniel in two with a downward swing that could have crushed an ordinary man. Daniel's body moved first, a fluid wave of motion that seemed to flow like water around a rock. He ducked, twisting his torso into a low spin, sweeping his right leg in a controlled arc that grazed Ragnar's thigh, unbalancing him without injury, while simultaneously pivoting to deliver a precise elbow strike to the side of Ragnar's ribcage. The blow created a gust of air so strong it rustled the banners above, yet Ragnar staggered only slightly, eyes blazing with exhilaration rather than fear.
"Come on, Daniel!" Ragnar bellowed, swinging the axe again, horizontal this time, aiming to cut across the chest. "Show me everything! Don't hold back!" His voice carried a mixture of desperation and exhilaration, the thrill of combat overpowering all restraint.
Daniel responded instantly, a symphony of motion. He ducked under the swing, pivoted, and twisted his body, sending a palm strike outward against Ragnar's shoulder that sent a visible shockwave rippling through the air. The war axe clanged against invisible pressure points, redirected by Daniel's precise hand placement, spinning off harmlessly. Then Daniel's knees snapped upward in rapid succession, each strike delivering controlled bursts of force, gusts of wind so powerful they stirred the dust and sand of the arena floor. Ragnar barely deflected the blows, his muscles straining, the axe wobbling in his grip with the energy of each impact.
Ragnar swung in a wide, arcing overhead attack, aiming to bring Daniel down in one decisive blow. Daniel's body reacted with the elegance of water and steel combined: a front roll that twisted into a spinning back kick, his foot striking Ragnar's midsection with pinpoint precision. The force sent a gust of wind that whipped Ragnar's hair and cloak, yet left him standing, teeth gritted, breath ragged. "You've learned something new!" Ragnar shouted, chest heaving. "You're not just using your body… you're turning it into storms!"
The fight escalated further. Daniel's hands became weapons of blinding speed, striking, parrying, and redirecting energy simultaneously. He feinted with his left hand, delivered a low sweeping kick with his right, elbowing Ragnar's arm mid-swing, and pivoting to generate a spiraling vortex of air that sent the crowd gasping. Every maneuver was calculated, precise, an advanced choreography of leverage, momentum, and force. Daniel's body moved like a living weapon, generating wind blasts from elbows, knee strikes, and twisting spins, each creating enough impact to stagger a man twice his size.
Ragnar roared in response, swinging the war axe with full power, launching overhead and diagonal arcs, overhead chops, and horizontal cleaves. Daniel met each strike with a combination of body shifts, deflecting movements, and pressure-point manipulations, converting Ragnar's own momentum into counterpressure that threw him off balance at several points. One precise palm strike to Ragnar's chest created a blast of air that snapped the axe upward out of alignment, leaving it hovering just above the ground. Another sweep of Daniel's leg to Ragnar's knee sent him sliding back, his feet skidding across the sand while the wind carried his cloak outward dramatically.
The audience was awestruck. The secret trainees of Daniel cheered silently, recognizing the mastery of movement, while thousands of spectators, unfamiliar with the intricacies, could only gape. Every strike Daniel delivered was both destructive and instructional, precise enough to incapacitate without harm, yet overwhelming in the physical force it generated. Ragnar's attacks grew wilder, more desperate, but Daniel's body adapted seamlessly: spinning, ducking, rolling, striking with arms, elbows, knees, and feet in perfect synchronization, creating gusts of wind that seemed to ripple like waves, visibly bending the banners and stirring the dust around them.
At one moment, Daniel launched into a series of alternating strikes, spinning his body in a near-horizontal corkscrew, elbows snapping outward, knees raking Ragnar's guard, and palms deflecting the war axe at just the right angles to keep it neutralized. Ragnar gritted his teeth, sweat dripping, breathing heavy, yet he laughed, a raw, fierce laugh of exhilaration. "You're insane! Every move… every twist… it's like fighting a storm!"
Daniel paused for a heartbeat, eyes locking with Ragnar's. He could see the unrestrained joy in his friend's expression, the hunger for true challenge, and he smiled faintly. Without a word, he advanced, closing the distance, unleashing a spinning elbow strike that sent a controlled shockwave of air, followed immediately by a pivoting knee strike, then a sweeping kick that spun Ragnar off balance again. Yet Daniel never struck to injure; every hit carried controlled pressure, a teaching in motion for Ragnar to feel the perfect channeling of force.
The spectators roared, the ground trembling with the gusts of wind Daniel generated, their cheers mingling with gasps of astonishment. The secret trainees leaned forward, fists clenched, hearts racing, every subtle pivot, twist, and strike of Daniel's body analyzed and etched into memory. Even as Ragnar lunged again with the war axe, shouting for Daniel to unleash more, the master moved as a storm incarnate, arms, legs, elbows, knees, torso, hips, each part a weapon, a deflector, a guide, and a masterstroke of martial excellence. The arena became a whirlwind of calculated violence, precision, and beauty, a display that would be etched into the memories of all who witnessed it for generations.
Ragnar finally lowered his war axe, chest heaving, sweat and snow dusting his hair and armor. He laughed, breathless, the fire in his eyes still burning. "Enough! Enough, Daniel! You… you must stop, or I'll never forgive you for showing me how weak I really am!"
Daniel merely nodded, calm and composed, letting Ragnar regain his footing. "You fought well," he said softly, "but this is the next level. There are no weapons… only the body. The storm is within you, if you learn to see it."
The crowd erupted in deafening cheers, the air electric with awe. The hidden trainees of Daniel clenched their fists, shouting silently in reverence, while Ragnar, still panting, finally allowed himself a smile of pure admiration, knowing that the challenge he had sought had been fulfilled—and that a storm like Daniel's was a force unlike any he had ever faced.
The arena seemed to shrink as Daniel's gaze swept across the group of elite fighters: Eirunn Stormbreaker, poised dagger in hand, Arvid Raskir with his war axe, Sigrid Ironveil with the longsword, Harald Thryne with shield and short sword, Eira Valsmir, agile and strategic despite her role as healer, and the six Veridica warriors who had already proven themselves in prior rounds. Each of them carried both respect and wariness; each knew the man standing before them was no ordinary fighter.
The horn sounded, sharp and commanding, and the first clash erupted. At first, it seemed like a conventional fight, a flurry of blades, axes, and dagger strikes. But as Daniel moved, everything changed. His body became an instrument of absolute precision, a conduit for kinetic energy so refined it seemed the arena itself bent to his will. Every step, every pivot, every swing of an arm or leg carried explosive force, yet remained controlled, flowing like a river around boulders.
Daniel shifted his technique, introducing a new method he had been refining in secret, what he called the "Reflection Principle." Every attack that came at him, from the sweep of Arvid's axe or the thrust of Sigrid's longsword, was not merely blocked but absorbed, redirected, and amplified. Momentum that would crush others instead became a force Daniel could feed back into his opponents. Arvid swung overhead with full power, Daniel ducked and twisted, catching the arc of the axe against his shoulder, and in one fluid motion, spun the energy back into Arvid's own legs, sending him sprawling across the sand in a controlled roll. The crowd gasped; Arvid was unharmed, but the force of his own attack had been turned against him.
Eirunn lunged next, dagger flashing, aiming for Daniel's ribs. He stepped aside, palm sliding along her forearm, redirecting her momentum in a spiral that spun her away from him. She landed lightly, immediately recovering, her eyes wide in disbelief. Each time she attempted a strike, Daniel transformed it into an opportunity: a step to the side, a subtle twist, and her own energy became a lesson in balance and precision.
Harald Thryne's shield slammed forward with all the weight of a fortress. Daniel sidestepped, leaning back and pivoting, letting the shield's momentum push him slightly before channeling it back into Harald's own legs, leaving the young warrior staggering but upright, entirely uninjured. Even Eira Valsmir, attempting to strike from angles Daniel's body seemed impossible to defend against, found her movements reversed, her energy feeding the rhythm of Daniel's controlled counterattacks.
The six Veridica warriors attacked simultaneously, forming a coordinated wave of strikes meant to overwhelm him. Daniel's body became a storm, spinning, ducking, and striking with elbows, knees, palms, and feet in a blur. Each movement intercepted two or three attacks at once, converting each into a subtle push or tap that sent his opponents off balance. The arena floor became an extension of his teaching: every step a lesson, every strike a demonstration of mastery, every pivot a choreography of force. The spectators erupted, unable to comprehend the harmony of aggression and control.
Daniel escalated further. He leapt into the center, using a spinning corkscrew kick to unbalance three warriors at once, catching the remaining attacks with elbows and forearms. Then he struck the air with precision, a calculated gust of wind so powerful it lifted sand from the arena floor, creating an ephemeral curtain that obscured him for just a heartbeat. When he emerged, every opponent had been sent sprawling, kneeling, or rolling across the arena. The elite warriors, all of them, instinctively bowed in respect. The "fight" was no longer a fight; it had become a controlled demonstration, a storm where Daniel was the eye.
At nearly six feet tall, with a presence that seemed larger than life, Daniel moved like a whirlwind incarnate. The spectators, nearly five thousand strong, leapt to their feet, gasping, cheering, and shaking their heads in disbelief. "He's turning them into his own lessons!" one shouted. "Look! Look at how he uses their force against them!"
The hidden trainees, five hundred strong, watched as their mentor's every motion became a live classroom. They whispered among themselves, eyes wide: "That step, he's showing how to redirect full momentum into controlled power." "Did you see how he spun Harald's charge into a perfectly timed sweep? Incredible…" "Even Eirunn… she'll never see the blade the same way again." Every subtle twist, elbow strike, knee tap, and redirection was etched into memory.
Daniel's control reached its peak. He launched a series of rapid strikes, each movement a combination of offensive and defensive mastery: a spinning elbow deflecting one opponent's axe, a hip pivot redirecting a sword strike, a precise knee sweep unbalancing another, and a palm push turning a healer's momentum into a perfect step back. Each action was calculated to maximize the lesson while minimizing harm. By the end, all the remaining warriors, Arvid, Sigrid, Harald, Eira, Eirunn, and the six Veridica fighters, were kneeling or bowing in deep respect, sweat and sand clinging to them, hearts racing, minds expanded.
The arena itself seemed alive. Siglorr's rune-reinforced floor shivered under the bursts of force Daniel generated; dust and sand swirled in visible gusts of redirected energy, forming ephemeral waves across the stone. This was no longer just a tournament, it was a revelation. Each spectator, whether a novice fighter or a master of their own school, understood the singular truth: Daniel had transformed combat into an art of the body itself, a lesson in precision, control, and sheer force of will.
Finally, he paused in the center, chest rising and falling, eyes calm yet burning with authority. His gaze swept across the kneeling warriors, then to the crowd, and finally to his hidden students, who clenched fists and shared silent nods. He had shown them not just victory, but the next stage of their path, the principle that their bodies were their ultimate weapon, capable of overwhelming force without harming unnecessarily, a living testament to the mastery Daniel demanded of all who walked his path.
The audience erupted in a deafening roar, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and elation. Daniel's presence alone had transformed the Grand Arena into a cathedral of martial perfection, and the stage was set for the next phase of the tournament, a challenge where the lessons of the body-as-weapon would be tested to the limit against the greatest warriors of the realm.