God Of Velmoryn [ LitRPG, Progression, High Fantasy ]

The grand hall pulsed with noise, laughter echoing against the stone, the clatter of horns being raised and slammed down, and the occasional shouting match between drunken celebrants.

After Tekla massacred the beast tide, the Yellow Tribe mages had done what they could to extract essences from the fallen creatures. As I'd expected, most of the bodies had been too damaged for Crimson Rite to work. But that didn't make them worthless.

Without the ability to harvest the lingering life force, the bodies could be used in a different way. Fur, hide, meat, bone - even the organs and intestines were taken. The hunters tasked with skinning the beasts were practically drooling over the opportunity.

"The intestines are the best!"
"I can't wait to try the kupati made from these things…"

They cheered as they loaded the carts with still-warm organs and hauled them back to the settlement. What had once looked like a war-torn hill of mangled corpses had been cleared so thoroughly that only dried blood and a few scattered entrails remained.

While the others sorted through meat, stretched hide, and dried bones for Mirion and the others to take back, Tekla had taken on a different task entirely. She was preaching.

The newest converts were drilled on the Ten Commandments daily. She made them recite the words each morning, treating it like a routine, the same as washing one's face. But more importantly, she focused her attention on those who still refused to bear my mark.

However, despite her tireless efforts over the last several days, the number of Velmoryns with transparent, silvery markings still exceeded five hundred. I couldn't understand what they were waiting for, why they resisted so stubbornly. Tekla had asked. They hadn't answered.

Now, with the work complete and the tribe celebrating their victory over the largest beast tide they'd ever seen, the hall was alive with energy. Drink was flowing, arms were locked in song, and even Mirion and Dariel had begun an arm wrestling match with a betting ring forming around them.

The non-believers sat together, far from the rest.

They didn't raise their horns in praise. They didn't cheer for Tekla, or me. They didn't sing. They didn't brawl. They simply watched.

"Priestess, please, try this kupati!" a young hunter called cheerfully, rushing forward. He had been working tirelessly for days and now carried a stick of grilled sausage, still sizzling. The skin was browned and crisp, the fat inside bubbling. He held it out to Tekla like an offering.

"Thank you," Tekla said with a soft smile, accepting the skewer. She leaned in and took a gentle bite.

The hunter's eyes lit up, practically glowing with anticipation. The moment her teeth pierced the casing, a burst of hot juices spilled out, dripping down her chin as the crisp skin crackled.

She flinched, startled by the heat more than the taste. Her expression twisted in mild concern as she glanced down - grease had stained the fabric of her dress.

But the Velmoryns around her only watched in admiration, grinning as if she'd performed a miracle.

Tekla let out a breathless laugh, already dabbing at her dress with a napkin.

"I suppose I should've let it cool first," she said, placing the skewer on her plate and gently wiping at the mess.

To them, it didn't matter. She could've eaten coal, and they'd have praised her for showing restraint.

Tekla wasn't just their savior, she was something far more. The display of divine power she had unleashed was unlike anything the Velmoryns had ever witnessed. And paired with it was a beauty that seemed almost unnatural. Ethereal.

Her silvery eyes, gentle yet unwavering, drifted across the hall like a warm current. She didn't stare, she enveloped. Her face was slightly long, elegant in its proportions, and her full lips, looking like they had been touched by cherry, made her mesmerizing. But it was her white hair, resembling fresh snow under moonlight, and the memory of her divine presence that made her untouchable. Not just in the physical sense, but in thoughts too.

None of my believers ever dared entertain impure fantasies about her, or even stray into irreverent curiosity. In their minds, Tekla did not belong to the world of mortals. She represented the God they worshipped. To show reverence to her was to prove their loyalty to me.

"Priestess, would you like to try gulabi?" Freya asked, approaching with a clay bowl cradled carefully in her hands. Inside were fruits I didn't recognize - plump, colorful… looking delicious.

"This one only grows near Lake Seryndal," she added, holding out a deep violet fruit. It looked like an apple, though it was larger and far too soft to be one.

"We harvest it when it's still unripe, then let it ripen slowly in the storage caves."

Freya enjoyed Tekla's company. And she'd noticed that the Priestess seemed to enjoy hers in return. So she made sure to seize every opportunity to offer a kind gesture, however small.

A little head peeked out from behind the folds of Freya's dress. A young girl, her voice barely above a whisper, asked with a nervous tremble, "Mommy… can I have it?"

Freya froze.

There had only been one gulabi in the bowl, and it was already in Tekla's hand.

Tekla smiled, clearly catching the tension in the moment. She bent slightly, her voice light with amusement. "Of course you can."

She gently offered the fruit to the girl, who immediately hid behind her mother's dress again.

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"Nelya! You must always accept what the Priestess offers you," Freya scolded softly.

But Tekla shook her head. "No, no. Please don't tell her that. Children should follow only two things without question," she said. "High Father's will and the teaching of their parents. Nothing else."

She stood up, her voice rising, or rather it seemed so because the surrounding noise quieted. Every conversation died as the Velmoryns turned to listen.

She moved around Freya and crouched beside the girl, who was still tucked behind the folds of the dress, half-hidden.

"Nelya," she said gently, "do you like the gulabi?"

The girl turned slightly, eyes darting between her mother and the priestess, still uncertain.

"If you promise me to be a good girl, listen to your parents, and eat plenty to grow strong," Tekla said, voice playful now, "then I'll give you this beautiful, juicy fruit."

She raised the violet fruit toward the girl's face, close enough for the imaginary scent to reach her.

Nelya's eyes sparkled. She even licked her lips.

Then, with a speed that surprised Tekla, the girl snatched the fruit from her hands, clutching it like it might disappear at any second. She quickly buried herself in her mother's skirt again, her voice muffled but clear:

"Thank you, Priestess."

If that scene had played out in my past life and I'd been just another face in the crowd, I probably would've thought the whole thing was staged. A celebrity handing fruit to a wide-eyed child? Teasing her gently, drawing smiles from the crowd? It would've looked like a performance. A carefully orchestrated act designed to cultivate affection in the hearts of surrounding people. That's how I would've seen it.

But now I didn't have to speculate, I knew.

I could feel Tekla's intentions with perfect clarity - every thought, every impulse. She wasn't pretending. She meant every bit of it. She was truly enjoying teasing the little girl, and that spark in the child's eyes when she realized the fruit was hers brought her a surge of joy.

And then, after the moment passed, she surprised me again.

Her voice reached me, trembling and apologetic.

"Father, forgive me, for I may have strayed from Your teachings. I… I equated Your will with a parent's."

Of course I had noticed it. I just hadn't decided how I felt about it.

A part of me bristled. My will was supposed to stand alone - sacred, absolute. Nothing else should be spoken of in the same breath. Not even a parent's guidance.

But another part… hesitated.

To ask my followers not to heed the very people who gave them life felt wrong. Not just morally, but strategically. A generation raised to disregard their own blood wouldn't form lasting bonds. They wouldn't value kinship or feel responsibility toward their people. They would become hollow. Devoted, yes, but dependent. Capable of obedience, but not growth. A god can command an army, but a civilization needs more than orders. It needs a strong desire to protect the culture and love. And it also needs the desire to develop what one already has.

But… was I a fool to let sentiment soften doctrine? I definitely wanted my will to be sacred and eternal. Was I being foolish to let it be challenged by something as fragile as a mother's lullaby? And yet… wasn't that fragility what built the future? Wasn't my memory of my mother what Avenor struggled the most to let go?!

Tekla, intentionally or not, had introduced a tier into my doctrine. A soft fracture, one that placed parental authority just beneath my own. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to fault her.

Even as a Priestess, she was still a mortal. A woman tasked with interpreting the divine, constantly questioned, constantly watched. Every word she spoke was treated as sacred, every misstep a test of doctrine. The fact she had made it this far without faltering was, frankly, a miracle.

So I answered her, giving her an answer that would not only fix the issue, but would also build something firm and lasting on it.

"In the child, the parent is revealed."

The message carried dual meanings. If a child turned away from the faith, the responsibility would fall on the parent. It would compel them to raise their children in a way that aligned with my will. But it also meant that parents were the ones who shaped the soul - who laid the foundation. They were to be honored, respected, and loved for it.

Tekla's face brightened the moment my words reached her. The shift was subtle at first, a soft inhale, the faintest glint of relief in her eyes, but then it bloomed into something radiant - joy poured from her like morning light through the window. Yet beneath that glow, I could sense her mind at work, already trying to understand the meaning behind my words.

I'd noticed early on how quickly she grasped the deeper meaning beneath the veil I often tried to create. And I had no doubt that in the future she would turn my words into one of the daily teachings she shared at the temple.

Around her, the Velmoryns, who had been awed just moments ago, now exchanged confused glances. They had seen her pause, then sulk, her expression shadowed with doubt. Freya, in particular, had been visibly distressed, clearly believing Tekla had taken offense at little Nelya. The others had followed suit, casting angry glances toward the child and the mother. But then, just as suddenly, Tekla had smiled again. And now no one knew what to think; no one understood the reason behind the Priestess' sudden mood swings.

The hall had fractured into distinct clusters.

Closest to Tekla were those who clung to her every movement, as if even her breath might carry divine instruction.

Toward the center of the room were the gluttons, gathered around overloaded plates and overflowing horns, still gorging themselves even as the celebration wore on.

Not far from them, the brawl continued. Mirion and Dariel were locked in an arm-wrestling match, both growling and straining, yet neither gaining ground. Their complaints echoed between gulps of drink.

"Can't use my skill… this isn't fair!"

And then, at the edge of it all, lingered the last group - the ones who refused to join the celebration. The ones not bearing my mark. Most of them had once followed Joriel. They were the ones who had pushed for war with the other tribes. That desire hadn't left them. If anything, it had begun to fester again.

And they had found a new banner to gather under.

A woman stood at the center of them now, a mage. Her expression was sharp, eyes locked on Dariel. Impatience was slowly building in her until she finally made up her mind.

The woman pushed through the crowd. She wore a leather tunic, accentuating her slender frame. A bone necklace rattled softly across her chest as she approached Dariel, who was already well past drunk. So much so that he didn't even notice the approaching woman. His face was flushed, his long, pointed ears almost glowing crimson.

"Vael Dariel, I'd like a word," the mage said, her tone composed as her eyes landed on Mirion, but the corners of her mouth twitched with restrained irritation.

"Can't it wait?" Dariel asked with a bright smile. "I'm about to show Mirion who the real man is!"

He didn't even notice the tension building around him as he snatched up a nearby horn, draining it in one long pull.

The mage did not smile.

"I had hoped to speak with you in private," she said, raising her chin slightly. Her voice rang clearer now, drawing more eyes. "But it's been over two weeks since my father's burial. I waited. Patiently."

She straightened her collar. The bones of her necklace clicked against one another… ominously for some reason.

"No one spoke with me. No one acknowledged what I had inherited. So I will no longer wait. I demand my rightful place on the council - the right that passed down from my father."