Chapter 33: The Road To Helheim [ 1 ]

Eden was a world of distances so immense that the word continent barely seemed sufficient to describe its greatest landmass.

The gigantic supercontinent was divided into nine Domains, each vast enough to contain countless civilizations within its borders, and those Domains were further separated into states, territories, kingdoms, empires, and regions ruled by powers whose influence had been established over centuries or even millennia.

Imperial dynasties governed enormous populations from ancient capitals, royal families maintained kingdoms stretching across thousands of miles, noble houses controlled hereditary lands, Martial Clans carved territories for themselves through strength, while academies gathered generation after generation of talented youths beneath their banners.

Beyond those recognized powers were merchant organizations, mercenary groups, religious orders, independent cities, ancient families, and countless smaller forces struggling to survive beneath the shadows of those standing above them.

Among the Nine Domains was Vargheim.

Within Vargheim lay Varangia State.

And at the absolute apex of Varangia stood House Grandel and even in the entire Vargheim Domain, the Grandel Clan stand at the top of the foodchain.

Calling the Grandels a powerful noble family failed to properly describe their position.

Their territory alone encompassed cities, towns, mountain ranges, forests, mines, fortresses, military installations, agricultural lands, and subordinate territories large enough to make lesser kingdoms appear insignificant.

Branch Houses extended the bloodline throughout Varangia, while Vassal Houses, military families, administrators, retainers, and generations of sworn subordinates formed an enormous structure beneath the Main Family.

There were kingdoms and other powers within Varangia that possessed their own rulers, histories, armies, and traditions, but none could mistake where the summit stood.

The Grandel Clan had occupied that summit for generations, and its influence reached far beyond the borders of the state itself.

A clan that remained at the top for so long couldn’t afford to neglect its next generation.

That was why Helheim existed.

Helheim Academy had been established by House Grandel for one purpose: to nurture the generations that would inherit everything their predecessors had built.

Any child who had reached ten years of age, awakened a Martial Soul, and successfully entered the Awakened Martial Rank could become eligible for admission, provided they belonged beneath the enormous banner of Grandel.

Direct descendants of the Main Family entered. Children of the Seven Great Branch Houses entered.

Sons and daughters of Vassal Houses entered alongside the descendants of generals, commanders, officials, retainers, servants, and other families whose loyalty bound them to the clan.

Even the child of a maid could enter Helheim if that child possessed the qualifications and belonged to a household recognized beneath Grandel authority.

Birth could determine where someone began in the outside world.

Inside Helheim, strength determined considerably more.

It was the foremost academy under House Grandel, infamous throughout Varangia as a place where talented children entered at ten and emerged years later as warriors capable of carrying the clan’s name into another generation.

Its reputation was equally glorious and terrible. To outsiders, Helheim represented the terrifying foundation behind Grandel’s continued dominance.

To the families beneath the clan, admission could change the future of an entire household.

To the children actually sent there, however, Helheim had earned a much simpler reputation.

A training hell.

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Far from Helheim itself, a long convoy moved steadily along an enormous paved road cutting through rolling green country beneath the afternoon sun.

Grimhorn Warsteeds pulled the carriages at a pace ordinary horses couldn’t have maintained for long, their midnight-black coats gleaming whenever sunlight struck them.

The Demonic Beasts moved with powerful, synchronized strides, curved ivory horns sweeping backward from their temples while silver-black harnesses connected them to the massive vehicles behind.

Mounted guards rode along both sides of the convoy in disciplined formations, with additional escorts positioned at the front and rear. Their spacing rarely changed even when the road curved through hills or descended into broad valleys.

The landscape had changed considerably during the journey. Dense woodland had given way to open plains covered in tall grass that moved like waves beneath the wind.

Farther away, enormous mountains rose against the horizon, their upper reaches disappearing into banks of white cloud.

Rivers wider than anything Sigurd remembered from Earth wound between distant hills, occasionally crossed by stone bridges broad enough for several carriages to travel beside one another.

Small settlements appeared along the route before disappearing behind them again, while cultivated fields stretched for miles around larger towns. Every few hours, the convoy passed travelers, merchants, mounted patrols, or freight caravans that moved aside almost immediately after recognizing the Zierghardt crest.

At the center of the formation, Sigurd sat inside a carriage that would have been better described as a traveling room.

The interior was large enough for him to stand and walk around comfortably. Dark polished wood covered the walls, broken by silver ornamentation and carefully engraved panels bearing subtle hunting motifs associated with Grandel.

Thick carpets softened the floor, while cushioned seats lined portions of both walls. A narrow bookshelf had been built beside one seat and secured so its contents wouldn’t move during travel.

Storage compartments were hidden beneath the furniture, enchanted lamps provided warm illumination whenever daylight faded, and heavy curtains framed broad windows of reinforced glass. There was even a small writing desk secured near the rear of the carriage.

At present, none of those luxuries held Sigurd’s attention.

A chessboard sat between him and the woman seated opposite.

His personal maid, Ottilie, appeared to be in her late twenties, with a mature beauty that differed greatly from the younger maids who had frequently surrounded Sigurd during childhood.

She possessed a soft, pleasantly plump figure beneath her immaculate black-and-white uniform, chestnut hair gathered neatly behind her head, and warm brown eyes that almost always seemed accompanied by a gentle smile.

Sylvia had assigned Ottilie to accompany him for the journey and ensure that whatever happened between the estate and Helheim, her son wouldn’t somehow forget that food, clean clothes, and sleep remained necessary for human survival.

Neither of them had spoken for several minutes.

Ottilie stared thoughtfully at the board.

Sigurd waited.