God Of Velmoryn [ LitRPG, Progression, High Fantasy ]

"Gund…"

"Master Gundir! How many blasted times do I have to tell ya?" the Drukyr grunted without turning around. His tone was harsh, but the expression on his face betrayed him - he was smiling.

From the corner of his eye, he watched the young Velmoryn freeze in place, sweat breaking across his forehead.

"I-I apologize, Master Gundir! I promise it shall not happen again!" Dirion stammered, one flinch away from facepalming himself.

Gundir didn't respond immediately. His shoulders trembled slightly, not from anger, but from suppressed laughter. He had time to spare this morning, and the poor boy had walked straight into it. The forge hadn't come alive yet; the fires were still low, and the Drukyr had yet to begin his next project - an axe for Mirion. For now, he was dusting the anvil, preparing to polish it until it gleamed like fresh steel.

"Off with ye now," he growled, waving a hand at Dirion like he was shooing off a stubborn bird. "An' tell the Priestess I'll be buried in me forge the next few days, hammerin' this new weapon."

"Yes, Master Gundir!" Dirion turned sharply on his heel, eager to escape. In his rush, he stumbled into a prototype shield propped against the edge of a table. He crouched, scrambling to pick it up, but Gundir's voice stopped him cold.

"Leave it!" the Drukyr snapped. "For fuck's sake, quit wreckin' me forge! Just go!"

Dirion panicked, bowing his head again, before vanishing through the doorframe in a flurry of apologies and half-formed curses.

Gundir chuckled, finally letting the grin stretch across his face.

He enjoyed messing with Dirion. The boy was Tekla's personal messenger, tasked with delivering the tribe's news to him every morning. Since Gundir refused to take part in morning prayers, it meant he was always the last to hear anything, but he didn't mind. As long as the Velmoryns brought him work - problems to solve, tools to refine, weapons to forge - he would be fine.

Every time he made something that bettered the tribe, that improved their lives even a little, he felt pride. Or perhaps something else, but I was certain Gundir was enjoying himself in my tribe.

A slow, measured knock rang from the doorframe.

"Master Gundir."

Gundir didn't need to turn. He knew that voice. He had asked for it, in fact.

"Did ya bring what I asked?" he called, his focus had already returned to the anvil. "Ya know I ain't craftin' a weapon I wouldn't use meself."

Mirion stepped through the doorway, tall and broad, his snow-caked boots thudding against the floor with each step. Wet tracks smeared across the wood, but Gundir didn't comment - he was already listening to the answer he didn't want to hear.

"We couldn't find the creature this time," Mirion said, shaking his head. "I don't mind if the weapon isn't as perfect as you promised. But if you insist on waiting for the right material… we'll be back from another hunt in a week. With luck, we'll bring it then."

Gundir grunted, displeased. His plans were already rearranging themselves.

"I don't churn out weapons like some market peddler," he muttered, turning to face him fully now. "I thought ya brought me the bones o' the beast. The one yer axe couldn't cut through."

"I brought the essence," Mirion said simply.

Gundir scowled. "Still can't believe ye slew the damned thing an' wasted such fine material for a single essence…"

When Gundir first heard there was a beast in the forest whose hide had not only resisted but broken Mirion's axe, he had been thrilled.

A skull tough enough to shatter steel? That meant dense bones, resilient fangs, rare hide. Materials that would've made for legendary weapons. He had already imagined the forge blazing, hammering out a gear that would carry that beast's name. He'd wanted everything - its bones, claws, teeth…

So when he learned the Velmoryns had used the Crimson Rite to extract its essence, rendering the entire corpse unusable, he was disappointed.

Disappointed, yes. Deeply. But not angry.

Gundir understood, at least better than Velmoryns, that the gods needed Soul Essences. He probably didn't know the details, but he clearly understood their importance, so he didn't protest.

Honestnly, even if he did, nothing would have changed. I needed every bit of Divinity Point I could get. After several successful hunts and, more importantly, converting nearly a third of the Yellow Tribe, I was approaching a milestone: one thousand Divinity Points.

Actually, I would've passed that mark already… if I hadn't spent so much bolstering the tribe. Even that morning, I had put into motion yet another plan by showing a vision to Tekla. And that was one of the reasons why Mirion had visited Gundir.

"There is one more thing I wanted to ask," Mirion said, voice softening slightly. "Would you consider taking on disciples? Just to teach them the basics. Enough that, when the Lord grants them His blessing, they have a path toward smithing-related classes."

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Gundir paused mid-motion, cloth resting on the half-polished anvil. He turned to face Mirion while considering the question.

"If they've the fire for it, I'll gladly teach," he said after a long pause. "But… gods handin' out blessings this freely, that's a new one."

He muttered it more to himself than to Mirion, turning back to the anvil. The cloth in his hand was stained black with soot and metal dust, more ceremonial than useful at this point.

"Maybe it's 'cause the tribe's still but a wee thing," he added quietly. "Aye, ya're few… but yer god, He's a different altogether."

He had no idea how right he was.

I was granting blessings, not out of generosity, but necessity. My believers were few, and growing them meant strengthening my foothold in this world. I had even considered blessing every Velmoryn at Bronze Rank and below. The cost was negligible after all. Just half a Divinity Point for each Bronze Rank.

And the Soul Essences extracted from each Varnok my hunting party slayed, provided between ten and fifty Divinity Points, depending on the beasts strength.

So blessing all the Bronze Ranks would have been easy.

And yet I hadn't done it.

I had no intention of handing out blessings like they were cheap candy. That would only diminish their worth, and besides, I was saving every scrap of divine power I could.

I was certain that once I crossed a thousand Divinity Points, my rank would rise. I needed that. Desperately. A higher rank meant more strength, possibly new skills, and with them, a better chance of surviving what was coming.

Because if my suspicions were right, that apostle in black, the one from the memory another god had left for me, was already on her way.

I don't know for sure if she's here to kill Avenor and start a divine war… or if she's coming for something else entirely. But it's always better to assume and prepare for the worst.

"Thank you. I'll let the Priestess know," Mirion said as he stepped out of the forge, the door swinging shut behind him with a muted thud. He headed toward the temple where Tekla spent most of her days, his boots pressing down fresh snow that had already begun to blanket the village again.

The path took him past rows of improved structures - no longer crooked shacks, but firm buildings standing on a few-inch tall foundations. The circular layout of the old settlement was long gone, replaced by compounds. Defined spaces. Order.

But what caught his attention today was the expansion. The living compound was growing. Dozens of new homes were being measured out and marked, the snow cleared away in neat outlines, wooden beams piled to the side for later use.

"Each time we return from the hunt, it feels like a new place," Mirion muttered, gaze drifting toward the towering Crimson Tree and the temple beside it. He rubbed his arms and brushed off the snow that had settled across his sleeves in just the short walk.

Unlike most Velmoryns, Mirion wore no coat. Whether it was a habit or stubbornness, he welcomed the cold like an old friend. Even now, in the heart of winter, he wore nothing more than a thin, long-sleeved shirt.

He finally reached the temple. The snow around the entrance had been cleared, and a rough cloth lay before the door - a reminder. Mirion had once forgotten to wipe his boots before stepping inside and had been treated to a full thirty-minute scolding from Tekla. He hadn't made the mistake again.

But as he stepped inside, he frowned. Tekla wasn't alone, as he had hoped.

"I know it's dangerous, Avenor… but by High Father's will, you shall prevail," Tekla said gently, her hands cupping Avenor's between hers as if trying to pass him warmth he no longer felt. Her voice was soft, but the message beneath it was firm. She was sending him into danger. And he knew it.

Avenor didn't protest. Not with words. But his expression said more than enough. His eyes burned with betrayal, and his brows were drawn so close they nearly touched.

"Am I going alone?" he asked in a low voice.

"Aria volunteered."

Avenor nodded stiffly, a hope igniting in his eyes. "Thank you, Priestess."

Then he turned and left with quick, controlled steps, passing Mirion without a glance. His eyes were locked on the exit.

"Tekla, what's wrong with him?" Mirion asked, stepping closer to his daughter. When she gave him a stern look, he raised his hands with a faint frown. "We're alone."

"It's not about ceremony or appearances," she said quietly. "It's who I am now."

"Are you not my daughter?" Mirion grumbled. "Actually, don't answer that."

He let out a dry laugh, imagining her answering that she belonged to the High Father now. She wouldn't say it, though. I knew that Tekla would do everything she could to avoid hurting her father's feelings.

"Priestess, where are Aria and Avenor going?" he asked after a pause. "We're due to leave for the next hunt."

"Avenor and Aria will not be joining. High Father has sent him to the Green Tribe to convert them."

Her voice held no hesitation. But I knew her thoughts. She didn't understand the order, and though she would never question it, she wanted to.

I couldn't blame her. But how was I supposed to explain that I had sent Avenor to the Green Tribe not for diplomacy, but because of that powerful mage they were sheltering? Of all the tribes, the Green had the strongest defenses. And if that apostle in black was coming, if she was truly hunting Avenor, then I wanted that confrontation to happen on someone else's soil. Preferably while their strongest mage was watching.

I'll force that mage to act. And when she does, I'll not only learn more about her, but I'll kill that apostle and keep Avenor alive in the process.

Despite how it might've looked from the outside, I wasn't trying to get rid of Avenor. I'd thought it through. For both our sakes, sending him to the Green Tribe made the most sense. On the surface, it would appear as though Avenor was simply spreading the faith, preaching about his god like any good zealot. But in truth, even if he didn't realize it himself, he'd be gathering intel. Watching. Waiting. And… acting as bait.

I know Avenor. The moment he catches wind of that mage, he'll start digging. And luckily, the magic maniac is going with him. Aria will probably faint from joy the second she finds out there's a powerful mage nearby.

"What are we supposed to do then?" Mirion asked. "Avenor and Aria are important members of the party. If they're both gone, I'll need a new frontline and a mage."

"You're not going on the hunt either," Tekla said, her lips curling upward as concern was replaced by excitement.

"What?" Mirion blinked, visibly stunned. His mouth opened like he was about to protest, but he stopped himself just short of saying something he'd regret - torn between defying me and upsetting his daughter.

"High Father has already converted the Yellow Tribe," Tekla continued smoothly. "They're waiting for me, and your party shall escort me."