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Ch 77 - God Works in Mysterious Ways
🕑 Added 2025-07-21 19:44:22 +0000 UTCDariel’s face fell. The laughter drained from him as if someone had cut a string. The haze that had softened his eyes, brought on by drink and the simple joy of friendly competition, began to lift. He activated his unique skill, one that removed lesser debuffs. Then, as clarity returned, his posture straightened, eyes now fixed on the mage in front of him.
“Your father was stripped of his position,” he said calmly. His hands, broad and calloused, pressed against the table as he rose to his feet. “You can’t inherit what was no longer his when he died.”
“That changes nothing!” the woman snapped back. “My father…”
“Cellia,” Dariel cut in, his voice raised just enough to silence her. His gaze sharpened, the heat behind his eyes unmistakable, but he caught himself. He exhaled and lowered his tone, shaking his head slowly like he was trying to keep the anger buried. “You might not remember… you were younger then. But your father only got his seat because I gave up mine. And now…”
“And now that you want it back, my father had to die for it?!” Cellia’s voice twisted into something venomous. She glanced toward the Velmoryns behind Dariel, her eyes accusing, as if they were to blame for Joriel’s death.
“It’s true,” she continued, louder now, her voice gaining weight, “I was a little girl when my father became a council member. And it’s true that I spent most of my time buried in scrolls and practicing my magic. I didn’t involve myself in politics, didn’t chase influence or titles.”
She took a step forward, chin raised.
“But even then, even from the outside, I saw how hard Joriel worked for this tribe.”
The pretense of a private discussion was gone. Cellia was no longer speaking to Dariel. She was speaking to the entire room.
“Our tribe was on the verge of collapse. We had one hunting party left. One. We were barely above scavengers. We were nearly at their level.” She gestured toward Mirion with a scoff.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed her face as she saw Mirion flush with anger, but she concealed it quickly, keeping her expression composed.
“My father turned that around. He rebuilt our strength. He earned more followers than any other council member. And if you hadn’t stabbed him in the back…”
“Enough.” Dariel’s voice thundered across the hall, cutting her off like a blade.
His fist slammed against the table, splintering the wood beneath it. The room fell silent. The laughter, the murmurs, the rhythm of the celebration - all stopped.
“I will not let you insult our guests or twist the truth.” Dariel’s voice grew darker, heavier with each word. “Your father was not backstabbed like you claim. He was challenged to a duel. I challenged him to a duel and defeated him. Then, he even admitted to everything. He admitted how he had manipulated me, how he had manipulated our entire tribe… You know what the punishment for treason is, Cellia. You know what your father did. You know what his Daggers did to those he labeled traitors.”
His eyes burned now - literally. The pupils had thinned to vertical slits, and his fangs were showing. The beast within him was stirring.
“Had I chosen to follow your father’s methods,” he growled, “you’d be dead already.”
A heavy breath escaped him. His rage was one final step away from surging forward, but he forced it to halt. He rubbed his temple, trying to calm himself - trapping the rage behind clenched teeth, forcing the creature inside back into stillness.
Then, quieter:
“Cellia.”
His voice was tired. Sincere.
“I don’t wish to harm you. I never have. You are a capable mage, one that our tribe… our entire race needs. If the council remained, I wouldn’t object to you claiming your father’s seat.”
He paused.
“But it would be pointless,” Dariel said coldly. “Tomorrow, the council will no longer exist.”
“What?” murmurs rippled through the Velmoryns behind him - confused, sharp-edged, bordering on alarm.
“In just a few weeks as Vael, you not only bring in strangers,” Cellia snapped, voice rising, “but now you’re abolishing the council entirely?”
Her words sharpened with each breath, clearly trying to gain supporters among the confused tribe
“What’s next? Will you take all the women as concubines, claiming your blood is thick with divine right? That the strong must breed more? No wonder… Like sire, like son! I should…”
She didn’t get to finish.
Dariel moved. Fast.
His palm struck her with a brutal crack, sending the mage hurtling backward. She slammed through a row of tables and chairs before her body crumpled against the far wall with a thud that silenced the room.
The crowd reacted differently - some gasped, some froze, some even let the smiles of satisfaction. And those who had followed Cellia glared.
“How dare you…” one of her supporters stepped forward, but no further. Not one of them did. Not with Dariel towering there, muscles coiled, fury barely restrained. No weapons were allowed inside the tribe, and even if they had been, the outcome wouldn’t change. Dariel wasn’t just stronger, he had the support of nearly the entire tribe. But more than that, the insult had been too obvious, too rehearsed. This had been a trap. And he walked straight into it.
Cellia stirred.
She stood slowly, breath ragged. The left side of her face had already begun to swell, the skin puffed and red, eye half-closed. But there was no fear in her expression, no submission. Her gaze burned. Not with righteousness, but with hatred. And yet, despite the rising tension, she didn’t channel mana nor did she activate any skill.
Instead, a towering Velmoryn stepped forward from the silent crowd.
He knelt in front of her, lowering his head as he extended his massive hand.
“Please… use me, Cellia.”
She didn’t look at him, her eyes were locked on Dariel. Still, she placed her hand atop his.
A pulse of green petals, dark and swirling, bloomed from their clasped palms. The magic passed cleanly. The swelling vanished from Cellia’s face and appeared instantly on his. The man flinched, lips twisting from the transferred pain, but didn’t make a sound. He even offered a happy smile. Well… as much as he could afford with his distorted face.
A damage transfer technique?!
I was busy studying the lingering mana in the air when Dariel stepped closer. The beast inside him, the one he’d just managed to suppress, was clawing again at the edges of his voice.
“For your words,” he growled, “I could’ve executed you on the spot.”
He stopped just short of Cellia.
“Take that strike as mercy. There won’t be another.”
Then, unexpectedly, Cellia bowed her head.
“I deserved it,” she said. Her voice was low, stripped of any emotion. “I crossed the line… and for that, I apologize, Vael Dariel.”
Dariel hesitated, then nodded slowly. But the air in the hall remained stiff and unmoving, like the entire room had forgotten how to breathe. No one spoke. No one moved.
Finally, Dariel’s gaze swept the crowd and landed on Tekla.
He let out a breath, heavy and tired.
“I didn’t dissolve the council,” he said, voice now returned to calm. “The decision was made with the council members. I’d intended to announce it tomorrow.”
He looked around again, locking eyes with no one and everyone.
“Our tribe will be moving to the… Divine Tree settlement.”
Cellia’s eyes moved across the hall, scanning the faces of those gathered behind Dariel. She was searching for cracks, for even a flicker of discontent.
But there was nothing.
A few wore wide-eyed expressions, caught off guard by the sudden announcement, but even those were rare. Most looked thoughtful, pensive… Accepting.
Tekla and Freya had already begun speaking openly about the union, quietly planting the idea among the believers. Not preaching it, not forcing it, just speaking of it like something inevitable. Something practical. Something guided by faith.
“If not for the Priestess,” Dariel continued, “we would’ve been wiped out by the beast wave. We worship the same god. We are of the same race. Why live scattered and weak when we could unite and become a nation strong enough to shape its own fate?”
He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd, before continuing.
“To prove that I have nothing but our tribe’s best interests in mind, I shall not only give up my position as Vael, I will take no part in whatever ruling model our united tribes decide upon.”
“Vael Dariel,” Mirion stepped forward and tapped his shoulder. “I ask you to reconsider. The Yellow Tribe will need a representative in whatever new council forms…”
“With respect, Mirion,” Dariel replied, “I must decline. I need to prove my sincerity this way. So that no one, now or later, can claim I made this decision to gain more power.”
He paused, then added quietly, “Besides, I don’t see myself as a good leader.”
“You are a great leader!”
“Please reconsider!”
“Vael Dariel, don’t…”
Voices rose around him, layered with genuine pleading. But Dariel only smiled.
He turned slightly, stealing a glance at Freya, who had stood quietly beside Tekla all this time. The pride on her face was unmistakable. And for Dariel, in that moment, nothing mattered more than that. Not the applause. Not the title. Just the look in her eyes.
Dariel was honest. Direct. Fiercely loyal. But those traits, so admirable in life, made for a dangerous weakness in politics. He wasn’t meant to lead. He couldn’t scheme and bury his emotions under layers of cold calculation. And people like that rarely led well…
Even the best intentions fracture under the weight of trying to please everyone, because in real life, it's impossible to make everyone happy.
Dariel’s smile slowly faded. He bowed his head slightly to those around him, the ones who still trusted him, and said:
“Thank you for your trust. But I won’t change my mind. I’ll gladly fight on the frontlines. I’ll protect our people with everything I have… but I won’t be the one making the decisions.”
That was when Cellia spoke again.
“Then why did you even become Vael?” she asked, seizing the moment as soon as the tide began to calm. She had grown restless, especially after realizing just how many in the Yellow Tribe, those who bore my mark, were more than ready to relocate. To follow the Priestess.
“I would’ve followed your leadership, despite our differences, but I won’t join these weaklings just because most of the tribe has already forgotten what blind faith in Gods cost us before.”
She stepped forward now, louder, firmer.
“I ask that you grant me, and those who stand with me, the right to leave.”
Ah, so this was the goal all along.
No one would believe that line. Only a fool would think that she was being honest when she claimed she was willing to accept Dariel as her Vael. No, Cellia had been maneuvering toward this moment from the very beginning. Perhaps even aiming higher before she realized that most of the Yellow Tribe wanted to live under the protection of the Crimson Guardian.
Should I let them live?
I could’ve stopped them easily.
I could’ve killed a handful and forced the rest to bend the knee. It would’ve resolved everything in less than an hour. And I had no doubt that once a Velmoryn bore my mark, betrayal would be impossible. Thanks to my still incomplete domain, I had absolute control over Velmoryns.
But the problem wasn’t whether I could stop them.
It was whether I should.
Because if I established the precedent that the Velmoryn God forced belief, then every future act of faith would be tainted by fear. And I could already sense it - the Velmoryns walked a dangerous edge. One more step, one wrong push, and they’d become cold, ruthless, bloodthirsty zealots.
Yes, they’d be easier to control. But they would have no future. Eventually, the other races would band together to wipe them out. And with them… me.
No! I won’t become like Sauron and be feared by everyone. I won’t wage war on every other race and turn my people into monsters too bloodthirsty to coexist with the world.
I needed something else. I needed to be the example. The restraint. The balance.
I wasn’t about to become a Samaritan, of course. If someone stood in my way, I had no qualms ending them. But pointless bloodshed would only damage me in the long run.
And more importantly… if my believers saw that I respected the free will of the Velmoryns, if they understood that I didn’t force submission, they, too, would think twice before raising a blade in my name. They’d know that faith wasn’t meant to be forced through fear, but chosen, even in conflict.
As I thought, Tekla stepped forward.
“Lord teaches us that we must spread His name with all we have. That we are never to show mercy to those who insult Him.” Her cold voice silenced the entire room, like an ice breeze freezing everything in the winter. “You’ve seen His power with your own eyes. You still breathe because He allowed you to. And yet, you stand here without gratitude. Without showing reverence.”
She stood before Cellia now. Their eyes locked.
Even Mirion tensed. He hadn’t heard this tone from his daughter before - authority that made people want to kneel before her.
“Part of me wishes to punish you,” Tekla admitted, her voice softer now. “But… despite my own confusion, the High Father permits the unfaithful to live among us. To enjoy the safety and blessings of His tribe, as if they were His own. Perhaps it is because the heavens are higher than the earth. And His thoughts… higher than ours.”
Tekla looked down for a moment, as if weighing the very concept she had just voiced.
“Cellia,” she continued. “The God of Velmoryn loves His children. Even when they sin, even when they fail Him. And we… as mortals… have no right to pass judgment in our Father’s place.”
Cellia’s expression shifted. The stiffness in her shoulders loosened slightly. Those behind her shared glances - relieved, hopeful. Some even smiled faintly, thinking the worst had passed.
But then Tekla raised her chin.
“However,” she said, “you also hold no right to pass judgment on His children and force them to live in darkness, away from the Father's light.”
She turned her head slightly toward Dariel.
“Vael Dariel, if I may…”
Her silver eyes burned with resolve. Enough to make Dariel nod without even realizing it.
Tekla turned back to Cellia.
“You and those who support you may leave,” she said. “But you may not take the children with you.”
The room went still again.
“And those who choose to stay,” she added, “will be allowed to remain… as faithless as they are.”
Comments
Andrew Kluttz
Good chapter. I liked that the schemer got shafted. But I hope that if she leaves anyways, Verde strikes her down to prevent knowledge leaking to other tribes. He should be smart and pragmatic enough, especially to do it where not seen by others. I'm really hungry for more content though...
Nadia Bakker
Also great chapter as always.
