Chapter 207
Because the Ouroboros Cave served as the only entrance and exit point to the Tower's reward zone the domain granted to those who completed the Empire of Graves quest, Siglorr's idea of forging a mobile base proved to be an ingenious solution. Melgil soon discovered an ideal location within the borders of the reward zone, a place untouched by the conflicts of rival war clans , tribes and the three other guilds that had already begun carving their own territories and enforcing their own methods of conquest.
In this strange realm, notions of right and wrong held no absolute meaning. Acts deemed good or evil by human standards were irrelevant here; only power through strength defined justice and survival in Valdyrheim. Daniel and his group simply followed what was expected of them , to endure and to dominate.
Under the Daniel or Netherborn's command, the sixty warriors journeyed westward, beyond the Ouroboros Mountain face and into its shadow unseen side, to a region where the cursed soil finally gave way to clean, fertile land. The area was hidden from most pathfinders by towering jagged rocks, some rising twice the height of a Skald-born warrior, forming natural walls that concealed the valley.
Within this hidden cradle of stone stretched nearly fifty acres of open land, its earth rich and dark, breathing the scent of life. Massive trees as large as houses stood like guardians around the fertile basin, their roots thick and deep, entwined with veins of glowing moss that pulsed faintly in the twilight. Between them, dense ferns, wild grains, and flowering shrubs thrived, nourished by underground streams that trickled from the mountain's heart. Above it all loomed the colossal back of the Ouroboros, its shadow draping the land like a shroud, keeping this secret paradise hidden from the eyes of others.
The sixty remnants of the gathered beneath the shadow of the Ouroboros as dusk began to fall. The valley that had once been silent now stirred with new life, the clang of steel, the whisper of a different form magic, started to spread those those who were offered a new life. warriors who had lived too long in shame and believing they were worthless
From the jagged mouth of the mountain came Siglorr, his golem armor gleaming faintly under the twilight. Behind him followed Melgil, her silk robes flowing like living shadows, and at their center stood Daniel, the Netherborn himself. The sixty Skjoldr warriors, scarred at first but swallowed their fear and watched as the trio descended from the ridge like figures of myth.
Siglorr's voice cut through the air like a hammer striking an anvil. "Brothers and sisters of the Skjoldr Clan," he bellowed, "you have fought long enough to know despair. But that ends today. Under the Netherborn's will, we build anew!"
Karnulf was the first onr to react and soon the others followed, they are roared in response, the ground trembling beneath their boots.
Supplies were distributed first. Crates of preserved food, forged clothing of enchanted weave, and jars filled with healing salve made by Melgil's hand. The wounded were brought forth, their gashes mended by silk that shimmered faintly as it sealed flesh and bone. To the Skjoldr, it was nothing short of a miracle.
They saw Melgil then, her six-foot frame standing tall and regal, her every movement a symphony of grace and command. Her presence radiated a calm so profound it felt unnatural, like a storm held in perfect stillness, a tempest waiting to unfold at her whim. The air around her shimmered faintly, heavy with the hum of divine essence, as if reality itself bent to accommodate her being.
Encircling her stood her Daughters of War, guards not born of flesh and womb, but crafted from her very spirit. They were living echoes of her will, bound not by blood but by creation. Each bore armor spun from Melgil's sacred silk, luminous, flexible, and alive, shifting in subtle patterns that reflected their mistress's mood. Their eyes glowed faintly with an inner light, neither human nor machine, but something holier, something that had seen both the birth and the end of worlds. When they moved, it was not with the disorder of mortals, but with the seamless unity of a single consciousness.
To the Skjoldr, whose beliefs still carried the thunder of the old Viking sagas of Earth, these women were not mere protectors. They were Valkyries reborn, divine reapers walking once more among the living, judges of worth, bringers of glory, or heralds of doom. Even the fiercest of the Skjoldr shieldmaidens, towering warriors of six and a half feet, their bodies tempered by battle and frost, felt the weight of something greater than strength.
One by one, they lowered their heads, not in surrender, but in reverence. For in Melgil, they saw not a queen nor a goddess alone, but the embodiment of the old myths reborn, the eternal mother of battle, standing at the threshold between life and legend.
Before Melgil's quiet divinity, even the fiercest hearts felt the weight of awe. Her presence was both a benediction and a warning, a living reminder that beauty and death often wore the same face.
No man dared gaze at her with lust; her presence was too sacred, too absolute. Even when she smiled, it carried the weight of storms and the gentleness of mercy. Her power, though lighter than the Netherborn's, radiated through the air, felt in every breath, every heartbeat. To stand before her was to feel both safe and small.
While Melgil tended to the wounded, Siglorr began laying out the blueprints of the Leviathan's Base, a mobile stronghold to serve as their home and fortress. His hands moved with mechanical precision as he instructed the warriors. "You will dig here," he said, pointing to the base of the mountain. "Forge tunnels deep into the iron veins. The mountain is alive with metal, our lifeblood. We will carve her heart and make it our shield."
And none dared question him. Though smaller than the pure Skald-born, Siglorr's authority was undeniable. His voice was the command of a forger who knew how to turn chaos into order, raw steel into living power. Even the proudest warriors lowered their heads as they followed his instructions.
Meanwhile, the hidden members of Daniel's team, engineers, enchanters, and rune-smiths, remained within the shadows of the Leviathan, their colossal vessel now anchored near the mountain's back. They worked in silence, carving a hidden entrance that would lead directly into the mountain's inner tunnels. The dwarven kin among them, creatures of stone and forge, rejoiced at their new home, metal-rich, warm, and deep, a true sanctuary for their craft.
When night came, Daniel gathered the sixty before a newly kindled fire at the valley's heart. He could sense their reverence, an awe that bordered on worship. It unsettled him. To them, he was a god; to himself, he was still a man searching for truth.
He stood before them, his voice calm but carrying weight. "You see us as gods," he said, "but we are not. I was once human, flesh, blood, and failure."
And then, before their eyes, the Netherborn shed his form. The air shimmered as the shadow peeled away, revealing his mortal self: a man of ordinary height, his hair dark and his eyes weary yet kind. Gasps rippled through the Skjoldr ranks.
"This," Daniel said, placing a hand over his heart, "is what I am. I became the Netherborn not to rule,but to understand. To master what lies beyond death and creation. You call me Lord, but I am still learning, just as you are."
The Skjoldr bowed deeply, not out of worship, but out of newfound respect.
Daniel's gaze swept over them, his tone softening. "I will guide you, not as a god, but as one who has walked the same road. Together, we will forge a new way of life. You, the warriors of Skjoldr, shall learn not only the art of war, but the discipline of purpose. You will fight not because you must, but because you choose to."
The fire reflected in their eyes. The sixty warriors stood united, and for the first time since the fall of their clan, they felt hope, not the kind given by gods, but the kind forged by men who refused to fall.
Above them, the shadow of the Ouroboros loomed like a silent guardian. Beneath it, the new base of the Netherborn began to take shape, steel by steel, rune by rune a promise of strength in a world where power alone defined survival.
The days that followed marked the beginning of a new dawn beneath the shadow of the Ouroboros.
Once barren and silent, the hidden valley now rang with the sounds of progress, hammers striking stone, steel being shaped into form, and voices raised in unity rather than despair. The Skjoldr Clan, once scattered remnants of a fallen people, now stood reborn with purpose. Under Daniel's command, Siglorr's guidance, and Melgil's care, the first layers of their new home began to take shape across the fifty-acre expanse of fertile land.
At the valley's center, they raised the Heart Forge, a colossal structure of stone and rune-bound steel that served as both command post and sacred meeting hall. Around it spread a growing network of dwellings, houses carved from wood and iron, their roofs reinforced with runic plating to resist storms. Siglorr's forge-smiths worked day and night, crafting tools for both labor and defense, while Melgil's silken wards shimmered faintly across the perimeter, forming an invisible barrier that cloaked the settlement from prying eyes.
To the north, fertile terraces were cleared and plowed. The cursed soil had turned rich and black, blessed by underground springs and Melgil's life-thread enchantments. Seeds from the Leviathan's stores were sown, and livestock pens were built near the forest's edge—boars, elk, and strange horned beasts native to Valdyrheim now roamed under the watchful eyes of Skjoldr herders. Smoke from their campfires rose into the twilight like offerings to forgotten gods.
Daniel, true to his word, did not act as a ruler but as a teacher. Each day, he walked among them—barefoot, unarmored—sharing his knowledge of discipline, combat, and civility. He taught the warriors not just how to wield their weapons, but why they must.
"Strength without purpose is ruin," he told them, standing before a group of young Skjoldr who trained with wooden spears. "You are not beasts meant for endless war. You are builders, guardians, flames that must never consume, but light the path for those who follow."
His words, though simple, struck deep. Slowly, the Skjoldr began to change.
He established training circles, open grounds where martial arts, tactical warfare, and weapon mastery were refined. But he also ordered classes in reading, writing, diplomacy, and moral conduct. Melgil herself led the Circle of Courtesy, teaching etiquette, compassion, and restraint to both men and women alike. Her lessons were strict but graceful, blending ancient Skald honor with Netherborn principles of balance.
Within just a few days, something profound occurred. The Skjoldr elders those who had once clung fiercely to their name and bloodline, gathered before Daniel and knelt. Their faces were painted with ash, the mark of renunciation.
"Lord Netherborn," their chieftain said, voice steady despite the trembling in his hands, "the Skjoldr name carries the scars of pride, vengeance, and failure. We wish to cast it aside. Let the old die so that we may live untainted. From this day forward, we are yours, not as slaves, but as believers."
Daniel looked upon them in silence for a long moment, then nodded solemnly. "Then rise," he said. "Not as Skjoldr… but as Neth'raen, Followers of the Black Flame. The fire that destroys also gives life. Guard it well."
And thus the new clan was born.
The sixty Neth'raen became the first unified order beneath the Netherborn's vision, a blend of warrior discipline, forger craft, and enlightened spirit. Their banners bore the mark of the Black Flame, a symbol representing rebirth through struggle.
Unbeknownst to them, the Ouroboros mountain they had claimed as home was more than just a as a cursed shelter, it was a gateway. The deeper Siglorr's teams dug into its heart, the more they uncovered ancient tunnels lined with runes far older than any Skald record. Faint currents of energy pulsed through the stone, whispering of an ancient connection, a sealed realm bound by the Old Gods themselves.
Most Valdyrheim historians dismissed the legends of a "hidden world" as superstition. The northern and western realms each told their own fragmented tales, but none aligned. Only in the southern lands, often mocked for their size and isolation, did a single, consistent account survive:
That a mountain of serpents guarded the First Seal, and beyond it lay a mirror world—a realm untouched by time, where the gods once walked among mortals before retreating into silence.
The Neth'raen had unknowingly built their home upon that very threshold.
As the Leviathan's engineers sealed the back entrance and fortified the tunnels, strange winds began to whisper through the caverns, and the glow of the runes beneath the stone dimly flickered like the breath of something ancient awakening.
Daniel sensed it, an unseen pulse beneath the mountain. Yet he did not speak of it, not yet. For now, his focus remained on his people. The Neth'raen thrived. The valley grew brighter, their unity stronger. In their songs, they no longer spoke of loss, but of the future of the coming of the Black Flame that would one day guide all Valdyrheim.
And as the shadows of the Ouroboros stretched across their new world, Daniel looked upon the fifty-acre land, the forge, the farms, the training fields, and whispered to himself,
"This is how it begins, not through conquest, but through creation."
In the months that followed the discovery of the sealed chamber beneath the Ouroboros, the Neth'raen clan, people flourished unlike any clan before them. What began as a refuge of sixty survivors had grown into a thriving bastion of civilization, one that defied the endless cycle of conquest that defined Valdyrheim. Freya, Karnulf, and Bomier, Daniel's chosen representatives, became the pillars of this new order, each guiding a vital part of the Neth'raen awakening.
Freya of the Circle of Void Once a blood-soaked shieldmaiden whose blade had felled kings, Freya now stood at the head of the Circle of Void a place where magic, education, and philosophy intertwined. Her teachings were unlike anything Valdyrheim had ever seen. She trained young warriors to see battle as art, not slaughter. Her students practiced swordplay to rhythm and silence, learning the harmony between focus and emptiness.
Under her, the valley's old warriors learned to read and write the runes of power, combining martial skill with intellect. Freya's hall The Lyrian Sanctum became a beacon of learning, carved from obsidian and bone-glass, its inner walls etched with spells that glowed faintly with each passing moon. Her students spoke often of her creed: "A blade knows not good or evil, it is the heart that commands its purpose." Freya herself wielded no weapon now; she taught through presence and patience.
Even the fiercest berserkers bowed before her calm. Karnulf of the Bound Flame, Karnulf, once known for his berserker madness, had changed under Daniel's guidance. No longer a creature of rage, he forged his fury into focus. He formed the Order of the Bound Flame, where warriors trained not for bloodlust but for mastery of body and spirit.
His warriors became smiths, artisans, and builders. They worked side by side with the dwarven kin from the Leviathan, creating marvels of steel and rune. They built irrigation systems that tamed the valley's streams, windmills that churned grain, and enchanted furnaces that burned cold and clean. Karnulf's workshops became symbols of progress, their forges lit with pale blue flame. bound fire that never consumed, only transformed.
His saying spread across the Neth'raen: "A true warrior doesn't destroy; he tempers the world as he tempers steel." Bomier the Scholar Bomier, once a tactician and shield-bearer, had traded his armor for scrolls. He became the first scholar of the Neth'raen, founding the Hall of Accord, a great circular archive that served as both council chamber and library.
He gathered knowledge from travelers, merchants, and even wandering mages who heard rumors of a peaceful power rising in the shadow of the Ouroboros. His works cataloged history, diplomacy, and trade. Under his watch, the Neth'raen began opening trade routes—not with conquest, but through fairness and negotiation.
Where raiding parties once sailed, caravans of iron and grain now moved between valleys. Barter replaced blood. Even clans long thought extinct found safety under the Neth'raen's banner. Social Changes and the Dawn of the Neth'raen Age Within a year, the Neth'raen lands had transformed into a new kind of civilization.
Children once raised for war now learned music, logic, and rune-craft. Markets bustled with farmers and hunters trading side by side. The sound of laughter replaced the clash of weapons. The Daughters of War became protectors and healers, teaching the art of defensive magic to the next generation.
Manners and honor were redefined, not by pride, but by mutual respect. When disputes arose, they were settled through duels of words and reason within the Hall of Accord. Daniel's teachings spread through the valley: "To rule others, one must first rule oneself." Other clans, broken by endless conflict, began to take notice. Refugees from fallen lands. smiths, warriors, and nomads, journeyed toward the Ouroboros, drawn by whispers of a "God of the Black Flame" who offered sanctuary and peace.
They called him The Netherborn, the Flame Beyond Death, protector of the old faith and liberator of the forgotten. But peace, in Valdyrheim, never remained unchallenged for long.
The Rumors Reach Frostfjord Far to the north, beyond the frozen lakes and the jagged storms, the news reached Frostfjord, a fortress-city carved into cliffs of crimson steel and frozen iron. Here, where lightning never slept and thunder sang eternally across the skies, the Bloodwolf Clan ruled. At its heart stood Skoldhall, the fortress of Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane. Lord of Frostfjord, Alpha of the Bloodwolf Clan, and bearer of Fenrir's mark.
His presence was as mighty as the storms that followed his howl. A warrior forged in both blood and frost, he was the living creed of his people: "Through blood and frost, the wolf endures." Eirikr's wives, Freydis the Crimson Witch and Astrid Ironheart, stood beside him as equals in both strength and wisdom. Their eleven children, each a legend in the making, commanded Frostfjord's armies and guarded its honor. It was during one of Frostfjord's endless tempests that a scout returned, bearing word of the strange power rising on the south the Ouroboros cursed mountain plateau .
Tales began to spread across Valdyrheim, whispered in taverns, carried by traders, and spoken in half-belief by wandering skalds. They told of a man who called himself Netherborn, the one who tamed the Serpent Devourer and, through will alone, forged a new world in a matter of days. They spoke of a hidden valley where warriors had once laid down their axes to till the soil, where blood-soaked fields had turned into fertile lands. From this valley rose a new people, the Neth'raen, the Followers of the Black Void Flame, a name that carried both reverence and dread.
These reports came from a company of 199 soldiers who had been sent to track down the remnants of the Sixty Fallen Skjoldr, warriors once thought lost to chaos. Instead, they found those same warriors reborn under Daniel and Melgil's command, their oaths reforged in silence and discipline. They no longer fought for coin or clan, they fought for the Netherborn.
Among their allies was a band of mercenaries led by Mordrin Bloodmane, cousin to the feared Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane of Frostfjord. Mordrin, though kin to the Bloodwolf lineage, had carved his own dominion, an entire town of sellswords, wanderers, and battle-worn survivors bound not by loyalty but by survival. His men became a third force, neither clan nor kingdom, but a disciplined host that governed and guarded the five conquered lands surrounding Frostfjord.
Those five territories, once wastelands of ash and ruin, were now soaked in the sweat of rebirth. Spanning a radius of ten kilometers, the region was transformed under the Neth'raen's direction. Flatlands once barren had turned fertile, rivers redirected to feed the soil, and herds of livestock now grazed where battle once thundered. The people whispered that even the earth bent beneath the Netherborn's will, reshaping itself to his vision of order.
Above it all stood the mountain the Bloodwolf Clan once claimed as sacred, Crimson Blood, a dark-red peak that loomed over the plains like an ancient sentinel. It rose eight hundred meters high, its slopes stained by iron-rich soil that glowed red under the morning light. Yet, in the shadow of greater titans, it was but a hill; for to the far east towered Mount Ouroboros, ten times its size, a mountain whose peak vanished into the clouds, said to hold the scars of gods and the breath of the first storms.
It was here, between crimson stone and the breath of the void, that the Neth'raen made their stand. From the ashes of chaos, under the command of Daniel and Melgil, they built not just a strongholdbut the beginning of a new age.
When he finished, silence fell over the storm hall. Jarl Eirikr rose slowly, his glacial eyes burning like twin bolts of lightning. His laughter rumbled through the stone walls.
"A god, you say?" he thundered.
"Then let this god prove his worth before the storm!" Freydis, the Crimson Witch, lifted her gaze from the flames. "Be cautious, my Jarl," she warned. "There are powers older than our blood. The mountain of serpents was forbidden even by the gods themselves." Astrid Ironheart, her runic eye gleaming, gripped the hilt of her war-axe. "Then perhaps it is time we see if the gods still bleed." Outside, the storms of Frostfjord howled like hungry wolves. The Bloodwolf Clan stirred, and whispers spread across the northern realms. The storm had heard the call of the flame.
Months had passed since peace had settled upon the valley. The rivers ran clear again, and the once-wounded lands of Ouroboros now pulsed with quiet life. Yet even amid this rebirth, Daniel, the one his people now called The Netherborn, the chaos Bringer, felt an unease stirring within him. The valley prospered, but it was sealed from the wider world, like a flame trapped beneath glass. Civilization, he knew, could not endure in isolation. To shape a lasting dawn, one must first understand the night that birthed it.
And so, when the first moon of the thawing season rose above the mist-veiled mountains, Daniel departed from the valley of Ouroboros. The journey would lead him outside the land many named Ormheim beyond the comfort of walls they created, Siglorr remain and manage everything, as the three traveled and begin their main task that was to gain information of what is the main quest. the second floor scenario remained true to its original narative , Daniel worked along with his main scenario creator Derick Collins, even after his death , Daniel had some hint in what the quest for this floor, it was absolute conquest.
The Second Floor Realm was vast, a continent of endless green and gold, veiled in mist and crowned by mountains that clawed the sky. It was a world teeming with vegetation, divided among wandering tribes who warred, traded, and lived by their own codes. Here, power was law. The strong dictated order; the weak bent or perished.
Daniel walked through this world not as a conqueror, but as a student of its chaos. Though peace reigned in Ouroboros Valley, he knew that peace born in isolation was fragile. Civilization could not stand on its own breath, it needed to understand the storm that surrounded it. And so he journeyed outward, determined to shape a better dawn from the lessons of the wild.
But the lands he crossed were carved by endless strife. Countless tribes fought for no reason other than survival. Farmers and forgers, once builders of life, were forced to take up arms to feed their starving kin. Even those who longed for peace found themselves dragged into bloodshed, bound by the cruel rhythm of survival.
Some among them, dreamers, outcasts, and seekers of freedom, fled north toward Ormheim, the Cursed Land. There, in the shadow of its haunted forests, they sought refuge, though few ever returned. The forest was said to whisper to the weak-minded, consuming thought and will alike.
As Daniel and his companions moved through these lands, they witnessed scenes of quiet despair. Scattered tribes huddled in hunger and exhaustion, too broken to lift their weapons. Their eyes were hollow, their spirits dimmed. These people no longer fought, they simply waited for death to come.
Yet beneath this stillness was a palpable tension. Even the starving could sense danger. The Skaldborn, as these tribes were called, were born with a predator's instinct. They could feel killing intent, raw and unfiltered, a natural sense, not a product of spellcraft or enchantment. In this realm, mana was not refined into scrolls, runes, or potions. Magic towers were myths; alchemy was a luxury. The world itself was simple, primal. One learned to survive, or perished.
Among the Skaldborn, this inner sense was called Seiðr, the breath of spirit and will. Unlike the arcane disciplines Daniel had mastered, Seiðr was not drawn from the world's energy but from the soul. It was the essence of intent, the invisible thread between life, death, and meaning. Warriors trained it through battle; shamans through silence; poets through story. In Valdyrheim, Seiðr was magic, faith, and strength combined.
Beside Daniel walked Melgil, the Weaver of Shadows, her many-threaded hood glimmering faintly in the pale northern light. Resting upon Daniel's shoulder was Nyx, her form fused into that of a fox-serpent hybrid, a divine dusk-born beast with nine tails and wings like veiled dusk. Together they followed the old trails through the whispering forests and across the broken plains of Thrymgard, where the bones of empires slept beneath snow and cloud. Their destination lay beyond the reach of maps: the lands of Valdyrheim.
Rumors whispered of those who had entered Ormheim and never returned. Even Daniel's Omni-Resonance, the echo of his cosmic awareness, could not sense them. One hundred and ninety-nine lives vanished, souls erased from existence. The air hummed with mana, yet Daniel sensed it was different. In Valdyrheim, the flow of power obeyed no scholar's law, it was alive, personal, volatile.
The Skaldborn were a people of war and song, tribes without kings, born of fire and legend. To outsiders, they were barbarians, raiders who worshipped storm and steel. Yet Daniel saw something deeper: a culture rooted in rhythm, chaos bound by its own unseen order. They lived not by decree but by heartbeat, a civilization that refused to be caged.
The first settlement they reached was Huldmark, a city without walls, yet vast as a kingdom. It sprawled across the tundra in motion and music: a living ocean of tents, smoke, and song. From afar, it shimmered like a mirage of bone and hide, thousands of leather roofs stitched from reindeer skin and whale sinew, rising and falling like waves beneath the aurora-lit sky. The air trembled with drums, laughter, and the scent of roasted meat.
The Skald-born were nomads by nature, wandering far and wide across the northern reaches, but Huldmark was their heart , a sacred refuge where all roads eventually led when the thawing moons returned. Nestled just beyond the borders of the cursed land of Ormheim, Huldmark was a strange and beautiful expanse , a vast plain of rolling hills, broken stone ridges, and patches of frostbitten grass that glimmered like silver under the sun.
Here, the ground was firm yet wild, scarred by ancient battles and long-forgotten footsteps. The air carried both the scent of pine and something older , the whisper of the Ormheim curse, said to linger in the winds that rolled down from its blackened mountains. Because of this, no great war clan dared to claim Huldmark. To shed blood upon its soil was to invite the wrath of the curse, and so it remained untouched , a neutral ground in a world ruled by violence.
In this uneasy peace, Huldmark became a place of gathering. Warriors traded spears for grain, poets bartered verses for mead, and children ran alongside wolves as if they were kin. Traders set up makeshift stalls beneath tattered tents, selling iron, leather, and stories from distant lands. Small nomadic clans built hidden settlements in the low valleys and among the hill shadows, where smoke from their fires rose like ghostly threads against the dawn.
It was said that Huldmark stretched nearly five miles across, a sanctuary between war and wilderness , a land unclaimed, untamed, and forever watched by the silent curse of Ormheim.
In this city of motion, economy was memory. Gold held no sway—it could not feed the spirit or carve one's name into eternity. A man's worth was weighed in the stories sung of him. A sword's value lay in the bravery behind it; a song could buy a feast if it stirred courage in the soul. To be remembered was to be rich, and the wealthiest among them were not merchants, but heroes.
The land itself mirrored their spirit, untamed, myth-woven, and sacred. To the south, the cursed highlands of Ormheim, known as The Home of the Serpent, twisted in perpetual mist. Mountains coiled like sleeping beasts; valleys wailed in ghostly wind. At its heart lay the Ouroboros Cave, sealed by silence. Legends claimed a serpent-god lay buried beneath, its body forming the land, its dreams shaping storms.
Beyond Ormheim stretched the realm of the Skaldborn tribes, hundreds of leagues of tundra, ravine, and frost forests where hidden settlements thrived unseen. A traveler might march for weeks without realizing a clan watched from beneath the snow.
In the north stood Valdyrheim, the great heart of their world—a land of fortress-mounds, sacred groves, and mead halls that rose like the teeth of giants. Here ruled the jarls, not kings. Power belonged to those whose Seiðr burned brightest and whose legends outlived their flesh.
To Daniel and Melgil, this was a revelation. A land without magic towers, yet alive with unseen energy. A people without scripture, yet bound by faith in living gods. The Skaldborn believed divinity walked among them in mortal guise, testing, blessing, or dooming them by whim.
And so, when Daniel entered Huldmark, cloaked in black flame, the people did not see a stranger. They saw a god returned in flesh, a herald of balance or ruin. Whispers spread from fjord to fjord: The Flame Beyond Death walks among us.
Inside the city, Daniel and Melgil observed the people closely. They were nothing like the starved tribes of the forests. These men and women were strong, their eyes bright, their Seiðr steady. There was no malice in their gaze, no killing intent. Melgil's lips curved in faint amusement.
"They are battle-scarred survivors," she murmured, her voice low beneath the rhythm of drums. "And yet… they look happy."
Daniel's expression softened. "Chaos can be balance," he said. "If the hearts that dwell within it beat as one."
"Death is not the end," Melgil added. "It's the start of something new."
At the center of Huldmark stood the Circle of Skalds, twelve wandering chiefs who ruled not from thrones but beneath the open sky. Each voice held equal weight; every decision was forged through story and song. Leadership shifted like the wind, earned through courage, lost through cowardice.
When Daniel stood among them, the air trembled with tension. Cloaked in black flame, he spoke of the Neth'raen way, of peace born from knowledge, of unity through understanding. Some mocked him, others listened. An old Skald, beard braided with charms, struck his drum and said:
"Your world sounds heavy with thought, Flameborn. Ours dances with freedom. Tell me—can your people sing when the storm comes?"
Daniel smiled faintly. "They will not only sing," he replied. "They will endure, and wield the storm as if it were their own breath."
Weeks passed as the Netherborn and his companions wandered from tribe to tribe, learning, listening, and sharing. They saw justice fought through strength, disputes settled in contests of verse and Seiðr. They saw warriors embrace their foes after battle, for among the Skaldborn, no conflict was complete until its tale was told.
One night, as the aurora shimmered like a burning river across the sky, Nyx spoke softly beside the fire. "They have no books," she said. "Yet every man is a library. They have no laws, yet none live under tyranny."
Daniel gazed into the flames. "Then perhaps," he said, "their freedom is their law—and their memory, their civilization."
By the rise of the second moon, word of the Netherborn's presence spread like wildfire. Some called him a prophet of balance, others a god come to bind chaos beneath order.
And far to the north, beyond the storm-swept cliffs of Frostfjord, a great wolf stirred.
Messengers reached Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane, Lord of Frostfjord and Alpha of the Bloodwolf Clan. As the wind howled through his hall, his crimson-streaked mane gleamed in the firelight. He listened, silent and cold.
"So," he rumbled, "the God of the Black Flame walks among the tribes, preaching peace to those who were born in war."
He rose, the shadow of his frame falling across ancient banners.
"If this so called Netherborn seeks to bind chaos beneath his banner," Eirikr growled, "then let the storm remind him, some fires cannot be tamed."
And as the auroras burned brighter than they had in a century, the North prepared to test the Black Flame.
The mountain mist still clung to the Leviathan's hull as Daniel, Melgil, and Nyx made their way down the frost-bitten trail. Below the ridge, smoke and shouting carried through the biting wind. The clang of steel echoed off stone, young voices, hot with arrogance, and older ones, weary yet unyielding.
Daniel halted, his boots sinking into the half-frozen mud. His eyes, cold and sharp as forged glass, narrowed toward the rising smoke."Do you hear that?" he murmured, his voice carrying the low rumble of an approaching storm.
Nyx's feline ears flicked, her tail curling with tension. "Raiders," she replied softly. "And they sound far too proud for their own good."
Melgil tilted her head, a faint smile ghosting her lips as the sigils beneath her eyes flickered to life, shimmering like tiny constellations. "Pride is a flame that devours its bearer," she said. "Perhaps it's time someone reminded them how quickly such fires die."
Daniel gave a quiet nod. "Then let us be their cold wind."
They descended the slope, cloaks snapping against the wind like dark banners. Their shadows stretched long across the pale snow until the scene below came into view:A small caravan of six wagons, encircled in a desperate defense, the air thick with smoke and curses. A weathered blue banner flapped weakly against the gusts—marked with a white wolf beneath a crescent moon. The Huldmark, simple traders of the north, known for their wool and salt dyes.
The Huldmark folk were plainly dressed but proud. The men wore woolen cloaks dyed storm-gray and indigo, trimmed with silver-thread fringes, and thick belts that bore the weight of years, not weapons. The women's tunics were long, belted with braided sashes of white and blue; their hair coiled and pinned with silver clasps shaped like breaking waves. They were mountain folk, modest and enduring yet even in their fear, they held the posture of people who refused to kneel.
Circling the caravan were three young warriors sons of the Bloodwolf Clan. Their faces were flushed from wind and drink, their laughter loud and careless. Each wore half-armor of chain and hardened boar hide, shoulders draped in crimson wolf pelts. Painted across both shoulders was their clan's mark: a snarling wolf skull in red dye, half-faded from battle and pride.
The Bloodwolves, children of the central plains were known for their temper and arrogance. These three carried both like banners.
"Come now, old men!" one shouted, spinning his axe lazily as he stepped closer to the wagons. "A fair trade! Your goods… for the girls you hide!"
Another laughed, his voice cracking with youth. "We are sons of the Bloodwolf! The plains belong to us!"
Daniel watched them quietly from a distance. His jaw tightened, but his tone stayed calm. "They think blood gives them claim," he said.
Melgil's eyes drifted toward the trembling caravan guards, gray-haired traders gripping dull spears. "Then they've forgotten what it means to earn blood," she said coldly.
Daniel took a step forward, the wind tugging at his cloak. "Then we remind them."
They descended the slope together, Daniel in front, Melgil behind, and Nyx watching from above the wagons, her eyes following every movement.
The three Bloodwolf youths turned as the strangers emerged through the fog. They hesitated when they saw Daniel's steady walk, his expression unreadable. Something about the way he moved made the air feel heavy.
The one in the middle sneered to cover his unease. "You think to play heroes, stranger? These plains are ours!"
Daniel didn't answer. His eyes flicked once toward Melgil, who lifted her hand and drew a glowing sigil in the air. For a moment, light sparked, then broke apart like dust. The glow faded instantly.
She frowned, trying again. Nothing. "The weave's gone cold," she muttered.
Daniel tested the air with a faint pulse of mana, but felt only silence. "Not gone," he said quietly. "Just changed."
Melgil nodded slightly. "This realm rejects the old language."
Daniel's eyes stayed on the warriors below. "Then we speak in a language they'll understand."
He drew his sword, clean, black-edged steel etched with faint runes that no longer glowed. The Bloodwolf in front barked a laugh, though it carried more unease than confidence.
"Two of you? Against us? You must be mad." His grin widened as his eyes shifted to Melgil. "The woman with you, she'd make a fine breeder for our clan."
Daniel's expression didn't change. His voice stayed level, quiet enough that the wind almost drowned it out.
"Madness," he said, "is thinking you can threaten the helpless and walk away."
The Bloodwolf's smirk faltered, but only for a second. Then he raised his axe and roared, charging forward.
Before the warrior could respond, Daniel moved.
The first Bloodwolf swung, but his strike met only air. Daniel's blade caught the return motion and split his guard wide open. The youth fell hard, breath gone before he hit the ground.
The second roared and lunged. Melgil's hands snapped forward, and from her palms burst thin, silver threads, no longer magic, but shaped from sheer will. They sliced through the leather straps of his armor. He froze mid-charge, confusion turning to pain as a line of red traced his chest.
The last Bloodwolf stumbled back, eyes wide. "You're not Skald-born! You're spirits!"
Daniel stopped a few paces away, blade pointed downward. "Spirits?" he said evenly. "No. Just men who remember what strength truly is."
The youth looked at his fallen comrades, panic overtaking his pride. Without another word, he turned and ran, disappearing into the mist.
Daniel didn't chase him. He wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. "Let him go," he said quietly. "He'll bring the others."
Melgil let her threads dissolve, the last glint of silver fading from her fingers. "And when they do?"
Daniel looked north, where storm clouds were gathering over the plains. "Then we'll see if the Bloodwolf still remembers how to fight for something real."
One warrior remained , broken ribs, limping, his face smeared with blood and mud. He stumbled backward, eyes wide with disbelief as he turned to run. Daniel didn't follow. His hand hovered over his blade for a moment, then lowered.
"Let him go," he said quietly, almost to himself.
The Bloodwolf staggered into the mist, disappearing over the ridge. Melgil glanced at Daniel but said nothing, her silver threads dissolving into air.
Daniel watched the horizon for a long while. The wind was cold here, carrying the scent of wet earth and iron. He could still feel the faint hum of power in his veins, dull, faint, not what it used to be. He raised his hand and focused, the memory of flame still alive somewhere in his mind.
Nothing.
The air stayed still, cold. No spark, no heat. Only the quiet pulse of his heartbeat.
He frowned slightly, flexing his fingers. "Strange," he murmured, almost curious. "Not gone… just changed."
It wasn't frustration that crossed his face but thought, deep and measured. He could still sense it, that invisible boundary where mana used to answer and now only silence lingered. But silence wasn't death. It was something else. Something waiting.
He looked down at his hand again. "So that's the difference," he whispered. "No more calling the flame… now I have to be it."
The clouds above deepened, heavy with the coming storm. The distant thunder rolled softly across the plains, like a slow heartbeat. Daniel turned and began walking north, his steps steady, his cloak tugged by the wind. Melgil followed, silent, the faint shimmer of her silk trailing like fading light.
The air was still thick with the scent of mud and iron when Daniel finally lowered his sword. The last of the Bloodwolf youths lay silent in the grass, and for the first time that morning, the caravan dared to breathe. Confusion hung heavy over the travelers no one moved, no one spoke. They had seen mercenaries before, even soldiers, but nothing like this.
Daniel turned to them, his tone calm but direct. "You're safe now," he said, sheathing his blade. "We're not your enemies."
The small caravan consisted of two cargo wagons and a handful of people, dusty, worn, and afraid. The man who stepped forward looked to be in his mid-forties, stocky but strong from years of roadwork. His hair was streaked with gray, tied back with a leather cord. He wore a patched brown coat and a merchant's badge half-faded from use. His name was Roderic Harlfen, head of the caravan, and the way he kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger showed that caution had become his habit.
At his side stood his wife, Marla Harlfen, a tall woman with a weathered but kind face. Her auburn hair was tied beneath a shawl, and her green eyes held both exhaustion and defiance. Even after what they'd seen, she refused to step behind her husband. She stood beside him, shoulders squared, a quiet strength radiating from her every motion.
Behind them lingered their son, Taren, no older than seventeen. He had his father's eyes but his mother's stubbornness. His clothes were too big for him, his hands calloused from helping with the wagons. He tried to look brave, but his voice trembled when he spoke. "Who… who are you people?"
Before Daniel could answer, another figure stepped from one of the wagons—a young woman cloaked in deep blue, her steps light and careful. She was Eira, a scholar's daughter who had joined the caravan under the guise of a trader's niece. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, but wary. She kept one hand near a small satchel at her belt, as though guarding something valuable—or dangerous.
And then there was Sera, a quiet woman who had rarely spoken since the journey began. Her long black hair fell loose around her shoulders, her pale face half-hidden beneath a hood. Her presence was almost ghostly, too calm, too composed for someone who had just watched blood spill. The others believed she was a healer or priestess, but the way she observed Daniel and Melgil suggested she knew far more than she admitted.
Daniel gave a slight bow. "I am Daniel Laeanna Rothchester
," he said simply, his tone even, "and this is Melgil Veara Gehinnom,, my partner and companion."
Melgil inclined her head politely, her silver hair catching the light.
"You can rest now. The plains are safe, for a while."
But despite their reassurances, hesitation still clung to the caravan. Roderic's hand didn't leave his dagger, and Marla's eyes darted between Daniel's sword and Melgil's strange, shimmering fingers.
"Safe," Roderic repeated slowly, as if testing the word. "Safe doesn't come easy in Valdyrheim
lands."
Daniel allowed himself the faintest of smiles. "Then consider today an exception."
but Daniel still know and sensed the silence stretching too long. The caravan folk kept their distance half wary, half grateful. The flickering campfire painted uneasy faces in orange and shadow. Beside him, Melgil stood quiet as ever, her silver eyes reflecting the flames like liquid moonlight.
Daniel inhaled deeply, letting the crackle of fire fill the space before he spoke. His tone was calm, measured, yet carried a weight that made the listeners lean in. "You've been through hell," he said softly. "You don't need to thank us. Just rest."
Roderic Harlfen, the broad-shouldered head of the caravan, nodded slowly but never let go of his musket. His wife, Lira, guided their son toward the wagon, casting wary glances toward Daniel.
Daniel crouched near the fire, a gesture meant to make him appear less imposing. He poked at the burning wood and continued, voice gentle but firm. "Tell me. on your travels, have you heard of the Sixty Skjoldr? The warriors who vanished near the northern pass?"
Roderic's brow furrowed. "Old campfire story. Hunted by spirits, swallowed by snow. No one believes it."
Daniel's expression remained unreadable. "They were hunted, yes, but not by spirits. And they were saved, not swallowed."
The young man in the wagon leaned forward, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "Saved? By what?"
Daniel's voice fell, reverent and steady. "By a serpent as long as a river—one the storms themselves obeyed. It carried them from the brink of death. But it was not the serpent that chose to save them. It was the one who walked beside it, the Netherborn."
The word hung heavy. A few women gasped quietly; even the wind seemed to still.
Roderic's eyes narrowed. "That's… a dangerous name to speak. The Netherborn—chaos incarnate, exiles of the divine. No man in his right mind claims kinship to such tales."
Daniel met his gaze without flinching. "Perhaps," he said slowly. "But history is rarely kind to those who survive in the cracks of its stories. Chaos is not always destruction. Sometimes… it is the spark that saves the forgotten."
Roderic's jaw tightened. "Saves the forgotten? Fine words for poets and madmen. Tell me, Daniel—how can the chaos of the Netherborn save anyone?"
Daniel leaned closer, his voice low, a whisper carrying conviction. "Because it does not wait for permission from gods or kings. It acts where order falters. Without that chaos, without those who live in the shadows and take risks no one else would, your people would be dead on the roadside. Forgotten. Starved. Burned."
A flicker of doubt passed Roderic's eyes. "And you… you claim to be of this chaos?"
Daniel allowed a small, subtle smile. "Not of it. But I know its value. And right now, its value aligns with yours." He straightened, voice earnest. "We may not share faith, blood, or past—but we share one goal: survival. The lives of those under your charge."
Roderic's shoulders eased slightly. "And what guarantee do I have that your chaos won't turn on us?"
Daniel's gaze remained steady. "No guarantee, I admit. But the world is full of worse certainties. I offer this: I act not for glory, nor vengeance, but for what must be preserved. In that, we are not enemies, Roderic. Allies… at least for now."
Roderic studied him, the tension palpable. Finally, he exhaled and gave a faint nod. "For survival… we walk this path together. But step out of line, Daniel, and even chaos itself will not save you."
Daniel inclined his head, the corner of his lips hinting a wry smile. "Then let us walk carefully, and wisely."
Taren soon gathered firewood and began building a larger bonfire, flames pushing back the chill of the night. Sera glanced at Roderic, worry in her eyes. "Is it wise to stay?" she asked. "Those three bandits… they might come back with more of their kind."
Roderic shook his head firmly. "Traveling at night is foolish. It's better to wait here, near the fire."
Daniel and Melgil moved a few steps away, giving the caravan space, their presence silent but watchful. Marla Harlfen studied them for a long moment, sensing no malice in their expressions. Taking a quiet risk, she stepped forward. "Come," she said, inviting them. "Join us by the fire. Warmth is no crime."
The two approached slowly, cautious but grateful. The flames licked their faces as the circle of the campfire grew a little wider, a fragile thread of trust binding strangers together.
For the first time that night, belief flickered in Roderic's eyes. He looked at his wife, who gave a cautious nod. Melgil's lips curved into a rare, knowing smile. "Then perhaps," she said softly, "we share the same road after all."
And as the fire crackled and shadows danced, the wall of fear between strangers began to crumble, one truth, one myth, and one act of trust at a time.
Roderic's eyes narrowed, sharp as blades. "That's… a dangerous name to speak. The Netherborn—chaos itself, the exile of the divine. No man in his right mind would claim kinship to such tales."
"My late father was a known collector of ancient texts," Marla said, her voice quiet but steady. "He—and many others, have read of a being so unexplainable, so beyond comprehension, that it can travel between worlds for reasons no one can truly understand… and yet, some say it chooses its path with purpose, even intent."
Daniel met his gaze, unflinching, calm as a still river. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "but history is rarely kind to those who survive in the cracks of its stories. The Netherborn may be chaos, but chaos is not always destruction. Sometimes… it is the spark that saves the forgotten."
Roderic's jaw tightened. "Saves the forgotten? That is a fine speech for poets and madmen. Tell me, Daniel, how could the chaos of the Netherborn save anyone?"
Daniel leaned closer, lowering his voice so it was almost a whisper, yet firm with conviction. "Because it does not wait for permission from gods or kings. It acts where order falters. Without that chaos, without those who live in the shadows and take risks no one else would, your people would be dead on the roadside. Forgotten. Starved. Burned."
Roderic's eyes flickered, a shadow of doubt crossing his features. "And you… you claim to be of this chaos?"
Daniel allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Not of it. But I know its value. And right now, its value aligns with yours." He straightened, his tone earnest. "We may not share the same faith, the same blood, or the same past but we do share the same goal. Survival. The lives of those under your charge."
Roderic's shoulders relaxed fractionally, the sharp edge of suspicion softening. "And what guarantee do I have that your chaos will not turn on us?"
Daniel's gaze held steady, unwavering. "No guarantee, I admit. But the world is full of worse certainties. I can only offer you this: I act not for glory, nor for vengeance, but for what must be preserved. And in that, we are not enemies, Roderic. We are allies… at least for now."
Roderic studied him long and hard. The tension in the air was thick, but in that moment, a fragile bridge was built—a bridge not of trust yet, but of necessity and understanding. Finally, Roderic exhaled, a faint, begrudging nod breaking through his caution.
"Very well," he said, voice low. "For the sake of survival… we walk this path together. But know this," he added, eyes narrowing once more, "step out of line, Daniel, and even chaos itself will not save you."
Daniel inclined his head, the hint of a wry smile at the corner of his lips. "Then let us walk carefully, and wisely."
The fire crackled between them. Roderic studied Daniel's face for a long time, searching for deceit, finding none. Slowly, his hand relaxed from the musket.
"You speak like one who's seen it," Roderic said finally.
Daniel nodded. "I have. I am one who's seen it."
Then Daniel changed. His form shifted, aura flaring as he became the Netherborn. His mana surged outward, immense and palpable, so potent that it reached the far corners of the world. Warlords felt it immediately. Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane of the North, Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend in the East, Ragnar Stormbreaker at the center, and Jotunn-Herald Bjorn Ironskald in the West. Even lesser leaders, those who commanded no great armies, could sense it.
The energy carried a chill, a brush of death that made even the strongest warriors tremble. At last, the stories, the whispers, the old tales, were no longer myth. For decades, these leaders had waged wars against each other, seeking dominance, yet never had they encountered power like this. It was raw, unrestrained, and devastating, a force equivalent to the combined might of all four warlords.
The world itself seemed to pause, acknowledging that the Netherborn was no legend.
The air shivered around Daniel as the last vestiges of his mortal form fell away. His eyes glowed silver, mana crackling like storm lightning across his skin. In that instant, every warrior attuned to power felt it, the chill of death, the weight of eternity pressing against their minds.
Daniel's voice, calm but resonant, echoed through the unseen threads of the world. Nyx… he commanded silently, and the bond responded instantly.
From the shadows near the fire, Nyx writhed and expanded, her form stretching impossibly, scales glinting like obsidian rivers. Limbs fused, body lengthened, fangs gleamed sharper than spears. Where once she had been subtle and coiled, now she was a living torrent, a serpent as vast as a river, undulating with raw, threatening majesty.
The firelight flickered against her massive scales, casting dancing shadows that seemed alive, as if the night itself had come to worship, or fear this creature.
The caravan froze. Breath caught in throats. Eyes widened in disbelief. Even Roderic Harlfen's seasoned gaze could not hide the flicker of dread.
Far away, in distant strongholds, the warlords shivered in unison. Jarl Eirikr Bloodmane's grip on his sword faltered; Shieldmaiden Astrid Skyrend's hand twitched toward her bow as if preparing to strike a phantom; Ragnar Stormbreaker's storm-forged armor felt heavy, constricting; and Bjorn Ironskald's war horns lay silent, as though the wind itself had obeyed the Netherborn's will. Lesser leaders across the lands fell to their knees, faces pale, hearts hammering at the raw, unimaginable force that had awakened.
Daniel's gaze swept across the caravan, silver eyes unblinking. He exhaled slowly, the energy rolling off him like waves of cold fire. Nyx coiled around him, a river of shadow and scale, her massive body moving with a grace that was terrifying in its precision.
Let this be remembered, Daniel thought, that those who meet the Netherborn do not merely witness power, they feel the world itself bend beneath it.
Even as the fire crackled, the shadows stretched longer, darker. The story that had once been whispered by travelers and scholars was now alive. And in that night, under the gaze of a newborn chaos, none would forget the name Daniel had carved into their very souls.