Chapter 135 - 134: Faith and Firelight

Chapter 135: Chapter 134: Faith and Firelight Later that night - Inside a stone Workshop lit by electric lamps The room was modest, lit by two bulbs hanging from the ceiling with twine. A crude map of the continent was spread across the table, marked with their village, the distant Pentaline Empire, and far across, beyond the seas, the Aetherborn Empire. Lumberling sat on one end of the table, arms resting beside his spear. Across from him sat Vaenyra, legs crossed, with Thessalia and Aurelya flanking her. He slid a book toward Vaenyra, his compiled knowledge on the principles of electricity, its functions, and applications. It was part of their original deal: his knowledge in exchange for elven magic. Now, it also marked the beginning of their business partnership. "So," Vaenyra began, her voice crisp and composed. "What you’ve created tonight isn’t just light. It’s an economy. A disruptor. Nobles will kill to get their hands on it." Lumberling smiled. "You’re already on board with me, now we just take it to the world." He met her gaze. "They’ll buy it, right?" "They’ll fight over it," Thessalia said bluntly. "Especially those too proud to admit they need magic but too weak to live without it." Vaenyra nodded. "Our people are proud, yes. But many nobles, especially in the outer duchies, value progress. And influence. This light would become a symbol of wealth and prestige overnight." "But the hurdle," Aurelya added, stepping beside the table, "is transport. You’re inside Pentaline territory. Our contacts are in the Aetherborn Empire." "What about selling to Sengolio?" Lumberling asked. Aurelya shook her head. "We have little to no connections there. Too risky. We’d prefer to stay within our empire." "How long would it take to reach your empire from here?" "That’s months of sea travel," Thessalia replied, tapping a line on the map. "Bandits, checkpoints, tolls... and then..." her voice turned cold, "pirates." Lumberling raised a brow at her reaction to the word pirates, then recalled what Vaenyra had once told them, pirates were the ones who raided Sylra’s home and sold her into slavery. Lumberling nodded, silently noting the challenges ahead. "So, how do we move forward with the partnership?" he asked. "You build," Thessalia said. "We handle transport and marketing. Brand the product as clean light, power without magic. Start small: batteries, bulbs, lamps. Portable. Easy to sell. The windmill and river generator will stay local." Aurelya chimed in, "They’ll pay more for finished goods than for blueprints or theory." "And once demand explodes," Thessalia continued, "we’ll set up distribution hubs. Protected sea routes. Eventually... licensed branches." Lumberling considered that. "And how much do you want in return?" "We’ll take forty percent," Thessalia answered. "We cover risk, exposure, and logistics. You build and improve. We expand together." Lumberling fell silent, weighing their offer. It was reasonable, most of the burden would fall on them. He had even considered offering fifty percent, but since they’d suggested forty, he wasn’t about to argue. "Alright," he said with a smile. "I accept." It was a good deal. He wouldn’t have to micromanage the business, and they’d still earn plenty. Let them handle the chaos. He’d focus on creation. ..... The next morning, a pale mist clung to the training grounds like a second skin, curling low around boots and blades of grass. Shafts of sunlight broke through the trees in golden lances, catching on dew-soaked leaves and making the forest shimmer as if the world itself held its breath. The village was just beginning to stir. Faint trails of smoke drifted from chimneys, the scent of warm bread and burning wood mingling with the crisp morning air. Down by the river, the soft whum-whum-whum of the paddle generator created a steady heartbeat, like the land itself was waking. In the central clearing, two figures moved in harmony. Vaenyra and Lumberling. Their forms flowed through the Concordia Cycle, an elven martial meditation passed down through centuries. It wasn’t just a training exercise; it was a conversation of breath and balance. Each motion rolled like ocean waves, each step taken with the grace of falling leaves. The silence between them was not empty, it was reverent. Their movements mirrored each other with quiet precision, bare feet pressing into the earth. Hands rising. Breath in. Palms slicing the air. Breath out. For a long time, neither spoke. Only the sounds of grass shifting and the occasional birdsong filled the air. Eventually, Lumberling broke the silence, his voice low but cutting through the stillness like a blade. "How long do you plan to stay?" Vaenyra didn’t falter. Her body flowed seamlessly into the next stance, arms arcing like water. "Not long," she replied. "Maybe half a year." Lumberling nodded, keeping pace. His expression unreadable, typical for him, but his thoughts moved behind his eyes like stormclouds forming. Before the quiet returned fully, Vaenyra’s voice stirred again, lighter this time, teasing, but with sincerity under the tone. "We’ll return." Lumberling glanced at her. Her movements hadn’t broken, but a rare smile ghosted her lips. "After all," she said, "you’re our partner now." That made him pause, just slightly. Vaenyra didn’t usually joke, let alone smile like that. He gave a short nod, suppressing the urge to smile back. There was too much to do anyway. Mass production. Supply chains. Logistics. And now, diplomacy. His voice shifted to match the weight in his chest. "Last night... Thessalia mentioned about the pirates." That changed the air. Vaenyra’s movements slowed almost imperceptibly, a slight tightening of her jaw. Lumberling saw it. He knew her well enough now to catch the smallest cracks in her composure. He continued. "You once told us they were behind the attack on Sylra’s family. But to strike a mage empire... are they really that powerful?" Vaenyra stilled completely. Her arms dropped to her sides, and for a moment, she simply stared into the misted forest beyond. "Yes. Because they’re not just pirates," she said, her voice like steel behind silk. "They’re powerful enough to rival our empire." Lumberling’s breath caught. "What do you mean? Pirates... rivaling a mage empire?" He shook his head, baffled. "They’re just sea bandits, aren’t they?" Vaenyra didn’t answer immediately. She turned her gaze to the horizon, her expression unreadable. "You haven’t seen the world beyond these borders," she murmured. "Outside the empires... the world is far more dangerous than you realize." She stepped through the next motion of the Concordia Cycle with practiced grace, but her voice turned sharp, measured, almost bitter. "They’re not just pirates. They’re the Kings of the Sea. Warlords of the Oceans. They’ve razed coastal fortresses, burned noble fleets, shattered trade routes we once thought untouchable." Lumberling narrowed his eyes. "So, what are they, exiled knights? Rogue mages banding together?" Vaenyra shook her head. "No. They don’t use magic like ours. And they have no knights." His brow furrowed. "Then what do they use?" She turned to face him fully now, her gaze steady, cutting. "Faith." Lumberling blinked. "They serve gods. Ancient ones. These pirates swear their lives to old deities... and awaken something primal in return." "Gods, huh." Lumberling echoed, recalling the time they visited a church for healing. He still remembered the strange power in that place, the warmth, the light. "Are they like the ones worshipped in churches? Blessings, healing, light?" Vaenyra gave a half-shake of her head. "Similar in form, perhaps. But far different in nature." She took a breath. "The pirates follow gods from another pantheon entirely. They call their chief deity Odin." Lumberling’s heart stuttered. ’Odin? No way.’ He fought to keep his face neutral, but Vaenyra went on. "There are others, Thor. Freyja. Tyr," she added quietly. "War gods. Fate gods. Bloodthirsty and cruel... yet strangely honorable in their own way." "What?!" Vaenyra arched a brow. Realizing he’d slipped, Lumberling quickly cleared his throat. "Sorry. Those names just sound... oddly familiar." Vaenyra studied him a moment, then tilted her head. "They’re rarely spoken outside their sea clans. They call themselves Vikings. Though the empire still brands them as pirates." Lumberling’s pulse quickened. ’Vikings. Norse gods. What the hell is going on here? Elves, Mages, Cultivators, Transmigrators... now this?’ He steadied his breath. "So... how do these Vikings get stronger?" "They swear themselves to their gods," Vaenyra said. "And in doing so, they walk the path of the Einherjar." She raised a hand, fingers weaving gracefully. A faint rune flickered into existence, burning gold and old as time, then vanished like mist. "God-blessings. Totemic rites. Runes carved into their flesh. They don’t train to become knights or mages, but instead they transform themselves into chosen warriors. Marked to someday fight in Ragnarok, their end-of-world war." Lumberling’s expression darkened. "That sounds like a death cult." "It is," Vaenyra answered simply. "But it works. They fight like they’ve already died. They fear nothing." A heavy silence fell between them. The wind brushed past, carrying the scent of distant pines and sea salt. Somewhere far off, a hawk cried out. Lumberling stared at the dirt path beneath his boots, his mind adrift. ’They fight like they’ve already died.’ The words echoed in him. And then, images stirred. He remembered a history class, long ago in his old world. The flicker of a projector in a dim classroom. An old textbook with yellowed pages and ink drawings of horned helmets, though that part had been a myth, he later learned. But the stories... those had stayed with him. Odin, the one-eyed god, trading an eye for wisdom at the roots of the world tree. Thor, thunder roaring in his wake, wielding a hammer that shattered mountains. Freyja, the beautiful and terrible goddess who chose the fallen. And Valhalla, a warrior’s paradise, not of peace, but endless battle. He had always thought of them as stories. Legends. Metaphor for a culture obsessed with honor and violence. But here, in this world of monsters, Knights, and magic, the line between myth and reality blurred more each day. He exhaled slowly, the weight of realization pressing in. "So... they’re not just raiders." "No," Vaenyra said, her voice quiet but firm. "They’re a culture of war. Their ships are temples. Their captains, both warriors and shamans." She turned toward him now, gaze steady. "And they don’t seek gold or land." Lumberling frowned. "Then what do they want?" Vaenyra didn’t answer right away. She looked up at the sky, at the drifting clouds like sails over a bloodstained sea. Her voice, when it came, was soft but unwavering. "Glory. In battle. In conquest. In dying a worthy death." Lumberling felt a chill. ’Valhalla.’ A part of him, still tethered to Earth, recoiled at the thought. Glorifying death, chasing war. Madness. He remembered scoffing at Norse mythology back in high school. Back then, it felt like nothing more than cosplay and campfire stories. But here... here, it felt like prophecy. And yet, another part of him, the part shaped by swords, by blood, by survival, understood it all too well. And that terrified him. ’Let there be light,’ he’d said just last night. But some things still thrived in the dark.